NUMBERS 

and  other 
One-Act  Plays 


GROVER 
THEIS 


NUMBERS 

and  Other  One  Act  Plays 


BY 

Grover  Theis 


NICHOLAS   L.   BROWN 
NEW  YORK  MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
GROVER    T  HEIS 

Publithed  May,  1919 


AM.   DRAMATIC    BIGHTS    RESERVED   BY   THE   ATTHOK 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

NUMBERS ^ 

BETWEEN  FIRES 31 

THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL .      .      .51 

THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 67 

LIKE  A  BOOK  01 


2082452 


NUMBERS 


CHARACTERS 


A  MAJOR. 

A  LIEUTENANT,  Philip. 

A  GIRL,  Marie. 

MADAME. 


The  scene  is  an  officer's  quarters  at  a  considerable 
distance  from  the  front.  Household  furniture  min- 
gled with  technical  war  equipment  fills  the  room.  A 
door  in  the  back  wall  leads  to  the  street;  one  in  the 
left  wall  to  the  kitchen.  A  stairway  leads  up  along 
the  wall  at  the  right  to  the  second  floor.  The  house 
suggests  a  tradesman's  home  in  a  small  village. 
The  MAJOR,  a  large  robust  man  of  a  blunt,  blustery 
nature,  is  sitting  at  a  large  table  in  the  centre,  work- 
ing over  official  documents.  The  only  light  in  the 
room  is  from  a  Jieavily  shaded  lamp  on  this  table; 
its  zone  of  illumination  extends  over  only  a  small 
space  of  floor  beyond  the  edge  of  the  table.  The 
LIEUTENANT,  a  slender  young  man  with  sensitive  fea- 
tures, is  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  facing  away  from 
the  table. 

THE  MAJOR.  (Putting  together  a  pile  of  papers 
and  flattening  them  by  pounding  on  them  with  his 
flst)  There  now,  that  is  done!  (Receiving  no  re- 
sponse from  the  LIEUTENANT,  he  walks  around  and 
stands  in  front  of  him)  What's  the  matter?  Why 
so  woe-begone? 

11 


NUMBERS 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (Rousing  himself)  Oh  .  .  . 
nothing  ...  I  was  just  thinking. 

THE  MAJOR.      (Laughing  loudly)     Bad  for  you 
—  don't    do    it.     I    never    do.     (After    a    pause") 
Thinking?     About  what?     The  girl  back  home,  I 
suppose,  eh? 

THE  LIEUTENANT.     No  —  not  exactly  .  .  . 

THE  MAJOR.  No  —  of  course  not  —  but  in  gen- 
eral, yes.  ( Walks  across  room)  That's  it.  Um, 
hm.  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  You're  just  about  that 
age  when  you  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with 
you. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  Oh,  there's  nothing  the  mat- 
ter. I'm  all  right.  Tired,  I  guess. 

THE  MAJOR.  Um,  hm.  Yes,  yes,  I  know ;  I  sup- 
pose so.  I've  handled  young  fellows  like  you  for 
twenty  years  —  I  know.  Then  I  used  to  be  one  my- 
self —  so  was  your  father  —  we  went  to  school  to- 
gether. Yes,  yes.  (Laughs)  Physiology  is  physi- 
ology. It  was  then  and  it  is  now.  I  learned  that 
early.  (Laughs)  That's  why  I  have  the  constitu- 
tion I've  got. 

THE   LIEUTENANT.      (Merely   saying   something) 
Yes,  I  suppose  physiology  is  physiology. 
12 


NUMBERS 

(A  tone  of  irony  attends  tJie  statement,  but 
the  MAJOR  does  not  appreciate  it) 

THE  MAJOR.  Yes,  and  it's  a  good  thing  to  recog- 
nize that  .  .  .  You've  been  up  on  the  front-line  now 
for  about  three  months,  haven't  you? 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  Just  about  —  but  it  seems 
like  three  years  —  even  in  retrospect.  I  wouldn't 
know  just  how  to  count  the  time. 

THE  MAJOR.  Hmm.  That's  it.  I  guess  that 
can  be  arranged.  Hmm.  I'm  going  down  to  Head- 
quarters now  and  I  won't  be  back  for  about  two  and 
a  half  hours.  You'll  be  here  alone.  That's  lots  of 
time. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.     Yes,  sir. 

THE  MAJOR.  Yes,  yes.  (Laughs)  You  know 
the  last  one  had  to  go  back.  I  don't  know  who  it 
was  —  it  wasn't  me,  though.  (Laughs)  But  the 
new  one  is  a  lot  prettier.  Let  me  see,  her  name  is  — 
she  just  came  before  you  did  —  oh,  I've  forgotten 
what  it  is,  but  she's  a  pretty  one.  Flirts  like  the 
devil  —  even  with  an  old  man  like  me.  I'll  tell  Ma- 
dame to  send  her  in  here  —  to  help  you  with  those 
orders  —  and  not  to  interrupt  you. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (Beginning  to  perceive  the 

13 


NUMBERS 

MAJOR'S  purpose)  You  needn't  go  to  any  trouble 
like  that  for  me,  Major.  I'm  a  gloomy  sort  of  chap, 
who  is  a  better  teacher  of  mathematics  than  a  sol- 
dier ;  so  what  you  think  may  not  be  the  reason  any- 
how. 

THE  MAJOR.  Rot!  Physiology  is  physiology 
whether  you're  a  professor  of  mathematics  or  a 
truck-driver.  Anyway,  what's  the  difference? 
We've  got  to  look  after  the  future  of  the  nation. 
(The  MAJOR  begins  in  a  spirit  of  levity,  but  abruptly 
becomes  serious)  Yes,  by  God,  the  nation  is  bleed- 
ing white  —  thousands  have  been  killed ;  we've  got 
to  build  a  new  nation.  We  can't  be  squeamish. 
These  are  war-times.  Numbers  count.  We  have 
got  to  have  people  of  our  own  flesh  and  blood  to 
carry  on  what  we  are  fighting  for  —  to  keep  it 
sacred,  and  to  perpetuate  the  heritage  for  which  we 
are  giving  our  lives. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.     But  .  .  . 

THE  MAJOR.  (Quickly  and  sharply)  No  buts. 
.  .  .  You  always  think  of  how  things  were  and  how 
they  ought  to  be  —  never  how  they  are.  But  I've 
been  in  wars  before  this  and  if  I  live  long  enough  I 
will  be  in  other  wars.  I  know.  And  these  are  war- 


NUMBERS 

times.  (More  quietly)  I  suppose,  my  son,  you  had 
a  girl  to  whom  you'd  be  married  now  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  war.  Yes,  that  would  have  been  pleas- 
anter  and  more  romantic  —  but  romance  soon  wears 
off.  Yes,  it  does,  it  don't  last.  You're  one  of  those 
dreamers.  I  know  your  kind,  you  idealists.  I  al- 
ways have  liked  you  fellows  who  can  dream  —  I  never 
could.  Hell,  I  even  sleep  too  soundly  to  dream  at 
night. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.     So  do  I  nowadays. 

THE  MAJOR.  Well,  don't  be  so  sad  about  it. 
You're  one  of  these  tender  souls.  I  ought  to  have 
had  more  sense  and  said  nothing  about  it.  The  idea 
of  going  out  and  leaving  you  alone  on  purpose  does 
seem  rather  too  brutal.  Oh,  you  young  fellows  — 
you  know  too  little  and  believe  too  much. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  Oh,  no  —  it  doesn't  make  any 
difference  that  you  told  me.  (Smiles)  I  see  your 
point  of  view.  What  you  said  about  thousands  be- 
ing killed,  and  needing  to  multiply  our  race  —  that's 
right. 

THE  MAJOR.  (Kindly)  Listen,  son ;  don't  count 
too  much  on  any  one.  The  one  you  think  is  waiting 
for  you  —  she's  probably  off  with  some  one  else.  Oh, 

15 


NUMBERS 

that's  all  right.    I  had  it  happen  to  me,  too.     There's 
female  physiology  as  well  as  male  physiology. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (Subtly)  And  a  good  deal 
of  psychology  on  both  sides. 

THE  MAJOR.      Psychology?      Psychology!      Oh, 

yes  —  psychology  too ;  but  I'll  bet  my  knowledge  of 

physiology,  and  psychology  too,  against  yours,  and 

give  you  ten  to  one  on  all  of  your  dreams  and  ideals 

—  and    I    never    studied    to    be    a    teacher    either. 

(Catts)     Madame!     Madame!     Come  here  a  minute. 

(MADAME,  a  haggish  woman  of  sixty,  comes 

hobbling  in  from  the  kitchen) 

MADAME.  Yes,  Major,  yes,  sir.  Here  I  am  — 
I'm  coming. 

THE  MAJOR.  What's  the  house  girl  doing? 
Where  is  she? 

MADAME.     She's  upstairs  sewing,  Major. 

THE  MAJOR.  Send  her  down  here  to  help  the 
Lieutenant  file  away  these  papers.  He  will  give  her 
instructions.  You  go  upstairs  and  finish  the  sew- 
ing for  her  —  and  stay  there.  (Looks  at  her  sig- 
nificantly, gets  his  hat  and  coat,  and  goes  out)  I 
shall  be  at  Headquarters. 

(The  LIEUTENANT  rises  and  salutes.     When 


NUMBERS 

the  MAJOE  has  closed  the  door  he  sits  down 
again.  He  seems  to  be  resuming  an  inter- 
rupted train  of  thought,  and  shades  his  eyes 
with  his  hand) 

MADAME.  (After  a  pause,  in  a  raspmg  voice) 
You,  you  young  Lieutenants,  you!  (Looks  at  him) 
Goodness  gracious,  what  are  you  so  sad  about? 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (Half  to  himself)  Sad? 
I'm  not  sad.  (Looks  up)  I  was  just  wishing  this 
war  were  over  so  I  could  go  back  and  finish  my  post- 
graduate work. 

MADAME.  (Laughs  in  an  annoying  manner)  I 
thought  you  was  going  to  say  back  to  your  sweet- 
heart; or  have  you  forgotten  her,  or  has  she  run 
away  with  some  one  back  there?  Oh,  yes  —  studies  ! 
War  knocks  all  the  romance  out  of  you  young  peo- 
ple. It  was  just  like  that  in  the  last  one  when  I 
was  a  young  girl.  That  was  forty  years  ago  — 
just  think,  forty  years! 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (  Wearily)  The  only  people 
who  are  romantic  are  old  women  who  get  their  thrills 
out  of  reading  novels. 

MADAME.  (Misunderstanding  him)  Yes,  yes, 
you  don't  want  to  listen  to  an  old  woman  like  me. 

17 


NUMBERS 

But  I'll  tell  you,  young  man,  girls  like  romance,  even 
if  it  is  play-acting.  And  maybe  this  one  had  a 
sweetheart  .  .  .  yes,  yes,  I'm  going — the  Major's 
orders. 

(She  clatter 9  up  the  stairway  and  disap- 
pears.    The  LIEUTENANT  drops  back  in  his 
chair  and  closes  his  eyes.     Presently  MARIE, 
a  pretty,  plump  girl,  appears  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs.     She  pauses  a  moment  and  then 
comes   down.     Her   manner   is   rather  gay. 
The  LIEUTENANT  does  not  notice  her) 
MAR  IK.     (Hesitating  at  the  table)     Madame  said 
the  Major  wants  me  to  help  you  with  some  work. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (Without  looking  up)  You'll 
find  the  papers  on  the  table  there. 

MARIE.  (Makes  a  grimace  at  his  pre-occupation 
and  sits  down.  After  a  pause,  vivaciously)  How 
did  things  go  to-day,  Mr.  Bear? 

THE  LIEUTENANT.     About  the  same  as  usual. 
MARIE.     Doesn't    seem    so.     What    are    you    so 
grouchy  about  then? 

(Bends  her  head  over  her  work) 
THE  LIEUTENANT.     Grouchy?     (He  gets  up  and 
walks  a  few  steps  away  from  the  table,  looking  up 
18 


NUMBERS 

at  the  ceiling,  closing  his  eyes  tightly,  and  then  open- 
ing them  again)     Oh,  I'm  not  grouchy. 

(Walks  around  behind  her,  still  at  a  dis- 
tance) 

MARIE.  (Half  coquettishly)  You'd  better  come 
and  see  if  I  am  doing  this  right  or  the  Major  might 
get  angry. 

(The  LIEUTENANT  looks  at  her  for  the  first 
time.     She  applies  herself  to  the  papers,  be- 
traying consciousness  of  his  glance) 
THE  LIEUTENANT.      (With  an  attempt  at  light- 
ness)    If  I  came  too  close  I  might  be  tempted  to 
steal  a  kiss.      (SJw  does  not  answer.     Suddenly  he 
takes  two  or  three  steps  towards  her,  stares  at  her 
bewildered  as  though  to  brush  something  from  his 
mind;  then  moves  quickly  to  her  side,  takes  her  by 
the  shoulders,  looks  at  her.     Shouts)     Marie! 
MARIE.     (Recognizes  him,  and  cries)     Philip! 
THE  LIEUTENANT.     Marie !     (He  seizes  her  in  his 
arms  and  kisses  her,  murmurmg)     Marie!     Marie! 
(Suddenly  his  muscles  relax  and  he  pushes 
her  aside  as  if  terrified  and  stares  at  her) 
MARIE.     Why,     what     is     the     matter,     Philip? 
(Touches  his  arm)     Oh,  I'm  so  glad  —  so  glad  to 

19 


NUMBERS 

see  you  again.  It  is  such  a  surprise  —  oh,  God,  it 
is  good  to  know  you  are  alive.  I  never  expected  to 
see  you  here. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (Standing  motionless  and 
*  peaking  with  difficulty;  quotes  her  statement)  "  I 
never  expected  to  see  you  here."  No,  you  didn't 
expect  to  see  me  —  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you,  either 
(Passes  his  hand  over  his  eyes),  or  is  it  a  dream? 
You! 

MARIE.  (Alarmed)  What  is  it,  Philip?  Aren't 
you  glad  to  see  me?  Aren't  you  well?  (She 
puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder)  Have  you  been 
wounded  ? 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (Madly)  Don't  touch  me  — 
(Shudders)  —  go  away  —  go  away ! 

MARIE.  (Frightened)  For  God's  sake,  Philip, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you?  This  is  Marie,  your 
Marie.  (He  laughs)  Good  God,  what  has  hap- 
pened to  you?  What  have  they  done  to  you? 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (Still  laughing)  Taught  me 
physiology.  Yes,  that's  it  —  physiology.  (Sits 
down  and  buries  his  head  in  his  hands.  Half-laugh- 
ing, half-sobbing)  I  never  knew  any  before  —  I 
spent  too  much  time  on  mathematics. 
20 


NUMBERS 

MARIE.  (Coming  over  to  him)  What  do  you 
mean,  Philip?  What  are  you  talking  about?  Don't 
be  foolish  —  this  is  Marie,  Marie  from  back  home. 
(He  looks  at  her  and  shakes  his  head)  We  were  to 
be  married. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  Married!  Married!  (LaugJis) 
Physiology ! 

(He  gets  up  and  walks  around,  laughmg 
hysterically,  artificially) 

MARIE.  (Half  angrily).  Good  God,  Philip,  have 
you  gone  mad? 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  Mad?  I  am  mad,  you  say? 
(Suddenly  he  quiets  down)  No,  I'm  not  mad.  You 
were  glad  to  see  me,  you  said.  I  haven't  seen  you 
in  a  year,  or  is  it  two  years?  I  can't  seem  to  re- 
member numbers  any  more  —  a  year,  I  think.  You 
were  in  the  Red  Cross  when  I  had  my  last  furlough  — 
in  a  hospital.  I  didn't  see  you  then.  You  have 
grown,  haven't  you,  Marie?  You  are  two  inches 
taller  —  at  least  that  much.  How  old  are  you? 
You  are  plumper  too.  But  that's  natural  —  that's 
physiology. 

MARIE.  In  Heaven's  name,  Philip,  what  do  you 
mean? 


NUMBERS 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  You  will  have  to  go  back  like 
the  other  one  did  —  soon  —  won't  you? 

MARIE.  Philip!  No,  no,  no,  that's  not  true  — 
what  you  think  isn't  true. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  Don't  lie,  don't  lie,  I  know. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  me.  These  are  war  times;  the 
nation  is  bleeding  white.  We  must  look  to  the  fu- 
ture of  the  nation  —  we  can't  be  squeamish.  Num- 
bers count. 

MARIE.  But  it's  not  true,  Philip  —  what  you 
think  is  not  true.  It's  a  lie.  It's  not  true. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  But  it  should  be  —  it  would 
be,  if  I  hadn't  been  I.  (Imitates  her  voice)  "  Why 
are  you  so  grouchy  to-night,  Mr.  Bear? "  It  is 
your  function  in  life  —  your  physiological  function. 
It  is  what  you  were  sent  here  for. 

MARIE.  Philip,  you  are  not  talking  sense.  Let 
me  explain  —  you  are  crazy. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  I  am  crazy?  .Ha!  That's 
what  the  Major  would  say  if  he  saw  me  now.  You 
were  surprised  to  see  me  alive  —  I  am  dead.  You 
are  dead.  We  are  dead  to  each  other  —  the  physi- 
ology of  us  lives  —  that's  all.  There  is  female 
physiology  as  well  as  male  physiology.  So  many 
22 


NUMBERS 

physiologies.  The  Major  knows  physiology.  Psy- 
chology? Physiology.  I  eat,  I  drink,  I  digest,  I 
get  wounded,  I  am  healed  —  that's  all.  I  am  one 
in  a  number  of  physiologies  —  you  are  another. 
(Glares  at  her)  Yes,  you're  just  a  physiology  too. 

MARIE.  Be  quiet,  Philip,  don't  talk  that  way. 
Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  (Trying  to  calm  him) 
Philip,  don't  you  remember?  We  loved  each  other. 
You  loved  me.  I  loved  you.  I  love  you. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  Love !  Bah !  Romance  soon 
wears  off.  Ten  minutes  ago  I  didn't  believe  it  — 
now  I  know.  That's  psychology  though.  We  swore 
to  be  true  to  each  other,  both  of  us.  But  we  have 
both  broken  that  vow.  Be  honest !  I  broke  it  to- 
night —  on  you  —  before  I  saw  who  you  were  —  I 
broke  my  vow  in  this  room.  I  was  intended  to  break 
it.  It  was  to  be  for  the  good  of  the  nation  —  to 
perpetuate  a  sacred  heritage.  It  is  dark  in  here.  .  . 
That's  what  the  Major  said.  It  is  dark  in  here; 
I  didn't  know  who  you  were.  You  were  a  pretty 
girl  who  flirted  even  with  an  old  man  like  the  Major. 
You  were  taking  the  place  of  the  one  who  had  to 
go  back.  I  stood  here  —  I  saw  the  back  of  your 
head  and  your  white  neck  —  I  said  I  had  better  not 


NUMBERS 

come  too  close  or  I  might  steal  a  kiss.  I  was  think- 
ing. .  .  Physiology  is  physiology.  Tell  me,  Marie, 
honestly  —  you  .  .  . 

MARIE.  Don't  say  those  things,  Philip.  You  are 
crazy. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.     Come,  come,  you  have  been  at 

other  billets.     Maybe  it  hasn't  gone  as  far  as  I  said 

-  but  that  makes  no  difference  —  you  are  only  a 

physiological   number   in   a   national   multiplication 

table. 

MABIE.  Stop,  Philip ;  I'd  rather  have  you  kill  me 
than  say  those  things. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  Kill  you?  Why  should  I  kill 
you?  Don't  be  afraid.  These  are  war  times  —  in 
peace  times  I  might  have  killed  you  —  or  killed  my- 
self. But  we  kill  for  a  different  purpose  now.  The 
Major  was  right.  It's  a  mathematical  problem  —  a 
problem  of  numbers  —  a  very  simple  one.  (MA- 
DAME, alarmed  at  the  shouting,  looks  in  through  the 
door  at  the  head  of  the  stairway.  She  notes  the 
uncanny  look  on  the  LIEUTENANT'S  face,  listens  a 
minute,  and  then  disappears  hastily)  Numbers 
count  in  war.  It  is  physiology  we  want  to  kill. 
The  rest  is  nothing.  If  I  killed  you  I  would  be  a 


NUMBERS 

traitor  to  my  country  —  it  would  be  treason  —  num- 
bers count.  Less  numbers  for  the  enemy,  more  num- 
bers for  us.  You  are  not  Marie,  the  girl  I  was 
going  to  marry  —  I  am  not  Philip  whom  you  were 
going  to  marry.  You  are  a  unit  in  a  nation;  I  am 
another  unit  in  that  nation.  It's  a  problem  in  mul- 
tiplication —  one  of  the  first  things  we  learned  in 
mathematics  —  a  simple  problem.  We  are  stran- 
gers. Numbers,  mere  numbers.  They  are  easy  to 
say :  a  million  men,  a  million  dollars  —  a  billion  men, 
a  billion  dollars.  That's  the  way  things  are  counted 
to-day.  I  wonder  how  many  a  million  is  —  yes ! 
I  —  I,  a  teacher  of  mathematics,  wonder.  A  million, 

billion,  trillion.     (Gesture  of  throwing  the  amount 

i 

lightly)  Kill  a  million  souls  and  spare  one  life,  that 
is  war.  What  good  are  souls  if  we  have  not  men? 
The  Major  left  us  alone  on  purpose.  He  was  think- 
ing about  the  future  of  the  nation.  We  need  men 
to  fight  and  women  to  bring  more  men  into  the  world. 
More  and  more  of  them,  a  million  more.  .  . 
(Stretches  his  arms  above  his  head)  Oh,  God!  I 
see  a  thousand,  a  million  lecherous  eyes  stare  at  me 
as  I  stand  here.  I  am  a  fool!  A  fool!  But,  by 
God,  I  have  not  lost  my  sense  of  humor  yet.  By 

25 


NUMBERS 

God,  no!  I  will  tell  the  Major  I  think  it  will  be 
twins  —  God,  how  he  will  roar  at  the  joke.  It's 
numbers  that  count.  .  . 

MARIE.  (Trying  to  quiet  hxm)  Keep  quiet, 
Philip.  Your  nerves  are  shattered.  (She  leads  him 
to  the  chair  and  tries  to  soothe  him.  He  does  not 
teem  to  notice  her  presence.  She  kneels  before  him 
and  the  picture  is  one  that  suggests  domestic  hap- 
piness. Timidly)  Oh,  Philip,  I  love  you.  I  love 
only  you.  You  mustn't  think  such  things.  Things 
have  changed.  These  are  war  times.  But  remem- 
ber everything,  dear,  as  if  the  war  hadn't  come. 
We'd  be  married  now  —  a  year  —  and  have  our 
home  and  be  happy  together,  you  and  I.  The  world 
would  be  for  you  and  me. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.  (As  if  awakenmg  from  a 
dream,  takes  her  head  in  his  hands.  Tenderly) 
Marie,  forgive  me.  I  can't  think,  I  don't  know  what 
I  have  been  saying.  (Shudders  convulsively)  My 
thoughts  arc  shrieking  shells ;  they  burst  in  my  head 
into  a  thousand  pieces,  a  million  pieces.  I  am  stum- 
bling through  the  darkness ;  my  hopes  are  comrades, 
hundreds  of  them,  falling  by  my  side.  I  only  hear 
the  roar,  the  constant  roar  of  guns,  thousands  of 
26 


NUMBERS 

guns.  I  can  hear  them  in  my  head.  We  are  at- 
tacking. (Falls  to  his  knees)  Now  I  am  in  the 
wire  entanglements.  There  is  nothing  but  wire 
everywhere,  barbed  wire.  (Gets  up,  staring  wildly) 
Now  a  rocket  lights  up  the  darkness.  I  see  them 
coming.  I  hear  bullets  now,  bullets,  thousands  of 
bullets.  We  crawl  along,  along  —  on  and  on.  We 
flounder  through  the  mud.  It  is  black  again.  The 
night  is  black  —  a  million  sounds  fill  the  blackness. 
God,  if  only  daylight  would  comef  Any  minute  I 
may  be  struck  —  each  one  seems  a  thousand  long. 
We  are  going  ahead,  hundreds  of  us  —  there  are 
hundreds  more  coming.  If  only  daylight  would 
come !  If  only  the  firing  would  stop !  Now  we  are 
on  them ;  I  am  numb,  but  we  go  on  and  on  and  on. 
There  they  are  I  Hundreds  of  them  —  more  and 
more  —  on  and  on  and  on.  There  is  one,  one,  out 
of  the  millions  —  he  is  going  to  shoot  me  —  he  is 
fighting  for  his  life  as  I  am  for  mine.  We  are  killing 
each  other  like  a  million  others.  (He  bends  over 
MARIE,  who  is  sitting  terrified  on  the  floor)  There 
are  just  the  two  of  us  now,  just  two  —  he  is  one 
and  I  am  one.  We  don't  hear  the  millions,  we  don't 
see  them.  He  is  stronger  than  I  am  —  he  will  kill 


NUMBERS 

me.     (He  seizes  MARIE  and  pulls  her  up,  puts  his 
hand  under  her  chin  and  forces  her  head  back)      He 
is  weakening,  weakening  —  he  is  going  down.     There 
are  hundreds  more  coming,  going.     There  are  al- 
ways more  coming.     I  must  go  on  and  on  and  on.  .  . 
(Pushes  MARIE  aside  and  dashes  for  the 
door.     As  he  reaches  it,  the  MAJOR,  followed 
by  MADAME,  opens  it.     He  grabs  the  LIEU- 
TENANT by  the  wrists  and  holds  him.     MA- 
DAME rushes  m  and  to  MARIE'S  side) 
THE    MAJOR.     Easy,   there,    old    man.     It's    all 
right.     You're  all  right. 

MADAME.  I  heard  him  say  something  about  kill- 
ing her. 

(Helps  MARIE  up) 
THE  MAJOR.     Fetch  her  some  water. 

(The  LIEUTENANT  weakly  succumbs  and 
lets  the  MAJOR  push  him  into  the  chair  by  the 
table.  MADAME  returns  with  water  and  puts 
MARIE  into  the  other  chair) 

MADAME.  We  were  just  in  time.  She's  coming 
to.  I  heard  him  say  something  about  killing  her, 
and  I  looked  in  and  saw  him  looking  so  wild. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.     (  With  the  expressionless  face 

fa 


NUMBERS 

of  an  idiot  begins  to  talk  weakly)  There  are  more 
and  more  of  them  coming,  a  million,  at  least  a  hun- 
dred thousand  —  then  more  and  more.  They  out- 
numbered us,  I  think. 

THE  MAJOR.     Come,  come,  keep  yourself  still  now. 

THE  LIEUTENANT.     Oh,  yes,  Major,  you're  right 

—  physiology  is  physiology  —  I  give  you  ten  to  one 
on   my  dreams.     Numbers,   only  numbers   count  — 
one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten 

—  eleven,  one  —  no,  twelve,  thirteen  —  numbers  — 
I  can't  count  them  any  more.     One,  two,  three,  four. 
(Mumbles    to    himself.     MARIE    revives,    and   upon 
opening  her  eyes  sees  the  LIEUTENANT,  who  looks  at 
her  blankly.     She  shrinks  back  in  terror;  MADAME 
quiets  her)     Numbers  are  what  count  —  one,  two, 
three,  four  .  .  . 

THE  MAJOR.  (Stands  at  the  LIEUTENANT'S  side; 
shakes  his  head)  A  bad  case  of  trench  madness.  I 
wonder  what  brought  it  on.  They  don't  usually  get 
it  so  long  after  they've  been  away.  (Pats  the  LIEU- 
TENANT'S shoulder,  who  goes  on  mumbling  numbers 
and  counting)  You'll  need  a  long  rest  before  you 
can  be  used  again. 

CURTAIN 

29 


BETWEEN  FIRES 
(  With  0.  F.  Theis) 


CHARACTERS 


MENA. 

GUIDO,  ~her  former  lover. 

LUIGI,  her  present  lover. 


TJie  scene  is  in  tJie  living  room  of  a  fisherman's  hut 
on  a  hillside  facing  the  harbor  on  one  of  the  islands 
off  the  coast  of  Sicily,  The  decorations  and  furni- 
ture are  primitive.  Nets,  ropes  and  oilier  fishing 
equipment  are  scattered  about.  A  colored  picture 
of  the  Madonna  Jiangs  on  the  wall.  In  one  corner 
stands  an  old-fashioned  chest.  MENA,  a  sinuous, 
fiery  young  woman  m  native  costume,  is  sitting  on 
a  stool  mending  a  large  fishing  net.  LUIGI  appears 
at  the  window  by  the  door  in  the  back.  He  looks  in 
and  knocks  lightly.  MENA  starts  as  LUIGI  quickly 
enters  the  door;  he  is  a  tall,  rather  slight,  picturesque 
young  man.  In  the  meantime  an  older  and  more 
sturdily  built  man  stealthily  looks  in  the  wmdow  for 
a  moment  and  disappears. 

LUIGI.  (Impetuously)  Mena!  (Takes  her  in 
his  arms)  Mena ! 

MENA.  What  are  you  doing  here?  I  thought 
you  were  hiding.  (She  looks  about  fearfully,  as 
though  sensing  another's  presence)  Why  did  you 
come  out? 

LUIGI.  To  see  you,  Mena,  my  beloved !  I'd  dare 
anything  for  you. 

35 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

MKNA.  Sssh!  Not  so  loud.  (Frees  herself  from 
his  embrace,  goes  to  door,  looks  out  anxiously,  and 
then  goes  back  into  his  arms)  We  must  be  careful. 

LUIGI.  Why,  we're  alone.  Everybody  is  out  at 
sea.  The  fish  are  running  today  — 

MEKA.     I  know,  but  Guido  —  he  — 

LUIGI.  Guido  went  too.  I  watched  his  boat  go 
out. 

MENA.     But  he  is  watching  you. 

LUIGI.  I'm  not  afraid.  When  the  gendarmes 
tried  to  catch  me  over  on  the  mainland,  I  fought  off 
three  of  them  —  (Makes  a  gesticulation  of  depreca- 
tion) —  with  my  own  hands  and  wits. 

MENA.  (Proudly)  Yes,  I  know.  But  Guido, 
he  is  big  and  strong. 

LUIGI.  Mena,  I  am  not  afraid  of  him  but  of  the 
king's  customs  officers.  They  came  with  the  ship 
down  there  to  take  me. 

MENA.  (Rushes  to  him  and  clings  to  him)  I 
won't  let  them  take  you. 

Lrici.  I've  given  them  the  slip.  Chased  them 
over  to  the  other  end  of  the  island.  They  are  fools. 
(Significantly)  But  I  must  leave. 

MENA.     (Unbelievingly)     Leave? 
36 


LUIGI.  Yes.  The  ship  sails  in  an  hour.  I  am 
going  with  it  —  the  one  they  came  on. 

MEN  A.     Oh,  no,  no,  no  ! 

LUIGI.  And  you  are  going  with  me.  See.  I  have 
fixed  that.  (He  pulls  out  two  long  strip-tickets  from 
Jus  vest-pocket  and  shows  them  to  her)  I  thought 
they'd  come  soon  and  got  ready.  I  thought  Guido 
had  tipped  them  off. 

MENA.  (Taken  aback)  Guido!  The  dog!  He 
thinks  he  can  make  me  marry  him. 

LUIGI.  Marry  him?  (Laughs)  Bah!  But  you 
don't  love  him. 

MENA.  No,  but  I  thought  once  I  did  before  you 
came  and  I  promised.  He  thinks  he  can  make  me  if 
he  gets  you  out  of  the  way. 

LUIGI.  I'll  be  out  of  his  way,  but  not  because  of 
him.  I  have  to  go. 

MENA.     But  you  can't  go  away  from  me. 

LUIGI.  Then  come.  (Impulsively)  Mena,  come, 
I  love  you. 

MENA.     But  I  can't  leave  so  sudden. 

LUIGI.     But  don't  you  love  me? 

MENA.     Yes,  yes,  more  than  life. 

LUIGI.     What  else  matters? 

37 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

MKNA.  Mj  father,  my  mother,  my  home,  every- 
thing. I  can't  leave  them  like  this.  (Coaxingly) 
Ah,  Luigi,  you  remember  how  we  used  to  talk  down 
there  by  the  spring  where  I  first  met  you.  And 
how  you  used  to  say  you'd  stay  here  with  me  al- 
ways and  never  smuggle  again  and  never  go  away 
again  and  become  a  fisherman  like  the  rest  of  us  — 

LUIGI.  But,  I  can't  stay  here  now.  Come,  Mena, 
quick.  They  are  after  me.  They'll  catch  me  if  I 
don't  get  out  of  the  country.  Come,  we'll  start 
out  new  far  away  from  here.  I  won't  have  to  smug- 
gle any  more.  We'll  get  rich,  and  then  we'll  come 
back.  But  now  we  must  hurry.  In  an  hour  we'll 
be  safe  at  sea. 

MKNA.  But  I'm  afraid  away  from  here.  I  have 
never  been  away. 

LUIGI.  You  don't  want  them  to  put  me  in  prison. 
Do  you?  They  always  do  that  to  smugglers. 

MENA.     No,  Luigi.     No  I     Not  that  f 

LUIGI.  And  you'll  have  to  marry  Guido.  (Goet 
to  door  restlessly)  I  have  got  to  go. 

MENA.     (Resolutely)     Then  I'll  go  with  you. 

LUIGI.      (Thankfully)      Mena!      (Kisses       her) 
But  quick.     Pack  up  a  few  things. 
38 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

(MENA   goes    into    another   room.     LUIGI 
stands    alert,    peering    out    of    the    -window. 
MENA    comes    back   with   her   arms   full   of 
clothes,  a  'c^^nd  red  cloak  on  top.     She  throws 
them  on  the  chest  by  the  window,  but  holds 
the  cloak,  looking  at  it  admiringly,  and  drap- 
ing herself  m  it  poses  to  LUIGI) 
MENA.     Isn't  it  beautiful.     I  always  wear  it  at 
feast  days  and  dances. 

LUIGI.  But  we  can't  take  that.  Only  what's 
needed. 

MENA.  (Disappointedly  turns  her  back  to  him 
and  looks  out  of  the  window.  Starts)  What  was 
that? 

LUIGI.      (Turns  quickly)     Where? 
MENA.     I  thought  I  saw  Guide's  shadow  in  the 
bushes. 

LUIGI.  (Relieved,  laughs)  Guido,  he's  out  at 
sea.  But  the  gendarmes  —  no  —  they  can't  be  back 
yet.  But  hurry.  The  ship  is  waiting  at  the  pier. 

(MENA  starts  to  pack  her  bundle,  which 
begins  to  assume  rather  large  proportions) 
MENA.     But  if  Guido  came  back.     I'm  afraid  of 
him. 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

(She  holds  up  the  red  cloak,  reluctant  to 
leave  it  behind) 

LUIGI.  (Intensely)  Isn't  your  love  greater  than 
fear  ? 

MENA.     Yes,  but  Guido  may  help  the  gendarmes. 

LUIGI.  I  know.  That's  why  you  must  be  quick. 
Come,  I'll  get  another  cloak  when  we  land.  Not  so 
much!  (Indicates  bundle)  Come! 

MENA.  No,  you  go  first.  Guido  says  you  have 
cast  an  evil  eye  on  me  and  until  the  spell  is  broken 
he'll  watch  you.  He's  seen  Antonia,  the  witch- 
woman,  she  who  can  make  flowers  dry  up  and  fish 
die  at  sea.  And  she  has  given  him  something  to  take 
the  spell  off  me. 

LUIGI.  (Laughing)  I'm  not  afraid  of  spells. 
There's  only  one  spell  —  the  spell  of  love  —  and  the 
only  spell  is  our  love,  yours  and  mine.  No  witch's 
curse  can  break  that.  It's  a  beautiful  spell  for  all 
time.  The  fire  of  my  love  is  like  red  sunsets. 

MENA.  How  fine  you  talk.  (She  kisses  him) 
My  Luigi ! 

LUIGI.     (Urging  her)     Now,  come.  .  . 

MENA.     Yes,  I'll  come,  but  later  —  alone.     It's 
safer. 
40 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

LUIGI.  But  if  you  changed  your  mind  and  didn't 
come. 

MEN  A.  (Passionately)  How  can  you  doubt? 
You,  you  are  everything.  I'll  never  love  anyone  but 
you,  I  leave  everything  for  you. 

LUIGI.     Men  a ! 

MENA.  It's  to  make  sure  never  to  lose  you,  I  want 
this,  now.  Guido  would  kill  you  if  he  saw  us  to- 
gether today.  You  go  to  the  ship  alone  and  wait 
for  me.  I'll  leave  as  if  to  get  water  from  the  spring. 
I'll  put  my  bundle  in  the  pail  so  they  can't  see  and 
I'll  stop  as  though  to  watch  the  ship  go.  Then  just 
as  it  is  ready  to  sail  we'll  run  up  together. 

LUIGI.     You  will  come. 

MENA.      (Crossing  herself)     Yes ! 

LUIGI.  The  whistle  blows  three  times.  I  will 
stand  down  there.  (Points)  I  can  see  the  house, 
and  when  you  close  the  door  I  know  you  have  started. 
(Grimly)  And  if  you  aren't  there  by  the  second 
whistle,  I'll  come  back  and  .  .  . 

MENA.  I'll  be  there.  I  swear  it  by  the  Madonna 
(Turns  to  picture)  who  protects  from  evil  eyes. 

LUIGI.  (Laughing,  points  to  his  eyes)  Evil  eye 
—  only  love  in  my  eyes  —  only  the  spell  of  love. 

41 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

The  witch-woman  gave  something  to  Guido  to  cure 
you.  I  take  you.  (Laughs)  King's  officers, 
Guido,  evil  eyes,  nothing  can  keep  us  apart. 

(He  starts  to  go  off  lightly) 

MEXA.  Sssh !  Go  easy  —  natural,  nobody  knows 
then.  Walk  slow. 

LUIGI.  (Laughing)  All  right.  You  foolish, 
silly  child.  Now  good-bye.  (/*  about  to  kiss  her) 
No  —  good-bye  we  will  say  together  from  the  ship. 
Ah,  Mena.  (Takes  out  the  strip-tickets  again) 
Here  are  the  tickets.  (With  his  head  close  to  hers 
he  reads)  Messina,  Palermo,  then  Gibraltar,  good- 
bye to  the  sunny  blue  Mediterranean,  then  over  the 
big  water,  you  and  I,  Mena,  to  the  new  land  —  Amer- 
ica. .  . 

MENA.     America  —  so  far  —  America ! 
LUIGI.     Yes,     America!     There     men     are     free. 
(Starts  to  go  and  stops  in  door)     Don't  forget  to 
close  the  door  when  you  start ! 

( LUIGI  goes  out.  MENA  pauses  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room  and  utters  the  word  "  Amer- 
ica." She  moves  about  nervously,  trying  to 
act  naturally,  but  showing  suppressed  agita- 
tion. She  puts  the  last  touches  on  the  bun- 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

die,  puts  the  cloak  on  again,  and  wanders 
about  saying  good-bye  to  the  familiar  objects 
m  the  room.  She  stops  m  front  of  the  Ma- 
donna, crosses  herself,  and  kneels  before  it. 
She  addresses  the  image:  "  Madonna  Mia, 
protect  my  father  and  mother  whom  I  am 
leaving  forever  today,  forgive  me  for  the  hurt 
I  am  doing  them;  Madonna  Mia,  give  me  all 
that  is  good."  The  first  whistle  of  the 
steamer  is  heard.  She  starts  up.  Sees  the 
cottage-door  closed  by  some  invisible  hand. 
She  runs  over  to  the  door,  and  finds  it  locked 
from  the  outside.  Unseen  by  her,  GUIDO  steps 
in  through  the  window.  He  moves  toward 
her  from  behind.  She  turns  suddenly  and 
they  meet  face  to  face.  She  screams) 

GUIDO.     What's  the  matter? 

MENA.  (Controlling  herself)  You,  Guido,  you 
here?  You  scared  me. 

GUIDO.     You  shouldn't  be  afraid  of  me. 

MENA.  I'm  not,  but  you  scared  me  coming  up 
behind  like  that. 

GUIDO.     (Half  sincerely)     I'm  sorry. 

MENA.  Never  mind.  What  did  you  close  the 

43 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

door  for?  (Guioo  laughs)  Why  aren't  you  fish- 
ing? 

GUIDO.     I  wanted  to  see  you. 

MEKA.  I've  told  you  I  don't  want  to  ever  see  your 
face  again. 

GUIDO.     It  wasn't  always  that  way. 

MENA.     I  don't  care.     It's  so  now.     Go  away ! 

GUIDO.  You  used  to  love  me.  You  used  to  put 
your  arms  around  me  and  kiss  me,  before  that  smug- 
gler from  the  mainland  came.  But  they'll  get  him 
yet. 

MENA.     He's  not  afraid. 

GUIDO.  Bah !  They're  all  cowards  at  heart,  those 
smugglers.  Talk  fine  and  brag!  But  I  love  you 
really,  Mena,  and  the  fire  of  my  love  is  like  the 
hearth's  in  winter  time.  I'm  a  fisherman,  true  and 
honest,  like  our  fathers  and  fathers'  fathers.  You 
are  a  fisherman's  daughter  and  we  were  to  be  mar- 
ried next  Saint's  day.  That  is  as  it  should  be. 

MENA.     Go  away,  I  hate  you. 

GUIDO.  (Striving  hard  to  control  himself)  No, 
you  love  me.  You  can't  help  saying  what  you  do 
because  he's  cast  a  spell  on  you.  I  know.  That's 
what  Antonia,  the  witch-woman,  said.  She's  given 
44 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

me  something  to  break  it.  (He  tries  to  give  her  a 
small  amulet)  Take  this  and  wear  it  next  to  your 
heart  and  you'll  love  me  again. 

MENA.  (Snatches  the  amulet  and  throws  it  out 
of  window)  Spell!  (Laughs)  There's  only  one 
spell  and  that's  the  spell  of  Luigi's  love.  There's 
no  other  spell.  I  don't  want  your  love.  (As  though 
dismissing  him)  Go  away. 

GUIDO.  (Tensely)  Never.  I  know  what  you 
mean  to  do  —  run  away  with  Luigi  today.  (More 
softly)  I  might  go  and  tell  the  gendarmes,  but  I'm 
going  to  give  him  a  chance  for  your  sake.  I  heard 
every  word  you  said. 

MENA.     (With  contempt)     You  spied  on  us? 

GUIDO.  You  were  going  to  walk  down  slowly  as 
if  to  get  some  water,  and  hide  the  bundle  in  the  pail, 
and  run  aboard  the  last  minute.  You  were  going 
to  close  the  door  when  you  started.  The  door  is 
closed  now  and  he  thinks  you  have  started. 

MENA.  (Runs  to  the  door  and  tries  to  open  it) 
Oh!  You  coward. 

GUIDO.  He  thinks  you  have  started  and  you  won't 
come  and  he'll  think  you've  fooled  him  and  he'll  go 
alone. 

45 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

MEN  A.  (Startled)  No,  he  won't.  (Pushes  at 
door)  Let  me  out. 

GUIDO.  No,  my  little  bride,  you'll  stay  right  here. 
(.MKNA  moves  back  and  forth  while  GUIDO  -watches 
her.  She  gets  her  back  toward  the  cupboard  and, 
standing  against  it,  furtively  opens  a  drawer,  taking 
out  a  kitchen-knife,  which  she  conceals  behind  her. 
Suddenly  she  makes  a  dash  at  GUIDO,  who  catches 
her  by  the  wrist.  He  takes  the  knife  away  and 
throws  it  out  of  the  window  after  the  amulet) 
That's  a  fine  woman,  a  woman  of  spirit  for  me.  I'll 
tame  you  when  we  are  married. 

(He  draws  her  into  his  arms.  She  strug- 
gles desperately  for  a  moment  and  slips  away 
from  him) 

MENA.  I'll  kill  you.  Luigi  will  come  back  —  he 
is  coming  back,  yes  —  we'll  kill  you. 

GUIDO.  (Enraged)  You  will?  (He  seizes  her 
around  the  waist  and,  picking  up  a  piece  of  rope, 
ties  her  to  a  chair.  Worn  out  by  the  struggle  MENA 
sits  limply.  GUIDO,  speaking  more  calmly)  Now 
let  him  come.  I  can  meet  him  alone,  and  I  am  a 
fisherman,  stronger  than  he  is,  that  whipper-snapper 
of  a  smuggler.  (The  second  whistle  blows.  MENA 
46 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

starts.  GUIDO  looks  out  of  the  window)  They  are 
getting  ready  to  go  now.  (Taunts  her)  I  don't 
see  him.  He's  on  board  —  waiting  for  you,  and  you 
are  tied  in  a  chair.  When  he  has  gone  the  spell 
will  be  broken. 

(MENA  has  struggled  desperately  to  free 
herself.  She  is  afraid  for  LUIGI  should  he 
come  back,  and  afraid  that  he  may  think  she 
has  deceived  him) 

MENA.  He  will  not  go  without  me  —  he  will 
come  back. 

GUIDO.  The  gendarmes  will  get  him  if  he  doesn't 
go  today. 

MENA.  (Contemptuously)  Gendarmes!  He's 
given  them  the  slip  before. 

GUIDO.     Not  if  he  comes  back  when  I  am  here. 

MENA.     (Desperately)     Oh! 

GUIDO.  But  he  won't  come  back  —  you  will  see 
that  my  love  is  stronger  than  his. 

MENA.     You  still  love  me,  when  I  don't  love  you? 

GUIDO.  (Passionately)  Love  you,  Mena?  It 
is  only  the  spell  he  has  cast  on  you.  It  won't  last 
long. 

MENA.     Love  lasts  forever. 

47 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

GUIDO.     Yes  —  and  you  loved  me  first. 

MBNA.  (Cunningly)  So  I  did  —  you  may  be 
right,  Guido! 

GUIDO.  (Eagerly)  That's  the  way  you  used  to 
say  Guido. 

MENA.     You  really  love  me,  Guido? 

GUIDO.     Love  you ! 

MENA.     You  say  his  love  is  only  a  spell? 

GUIDO.     Yes  —  and  the  spell  is  breaking. 

MENA.  How  do  you  know  when  the  spell  is  break- 
ing—  Guido? 

GUIDO.  When  the  old  love  is  back  in  your  voice 
as  you  speak  my  name. 

MENA.     But  if  he  comes  back? 

GUIDO.     If  he  comes  back. 

MENA.     You  are  so  strong,  Guido. 

GUIDO.     I  am  like  a  baby  in  your  hands,  Mena. 

MENA.  Is  that  why  you  tie  me?  (She  looks  at 
him  with  soft  eyes  and  turns  out  her  hands}  It 
hurts. 

GUIDO.  (Solicitously  and  taking  her  hands) 
Did  I  tie  you  too  fast? 

MENA.     Guido  — 
48 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

(He  is  kneeling  before  lier  and  looks  at  her 
tenderly.     She  returns  the  look) 

GUIDO.  (Tremblmg)  Mena  —  you  love  me 
again  —  the  spell  is  broken.  Mena,  I  have  hurt 
you.  (Hastily  loosens  the  rope)  Mena ! 

(She  listlessly  submits  to  his  caresses) 

MENA.  (Slowly)  I  feel  so  strange.  Don't  look 
at  me,  Guido. 

GUIDO.     Mena,  my  Mena! 

MENA.  Something  is  choking  me  —  something  is 
—  it  must  be  the  evil  spirit  leaving  my  body.  (She 
straightens  up  tensely  and  then  relaxes)  Guide! 

GUIDO.     Mena !     The  spell  is  breaking. 

MENA.     What  did  the  witch-woman  give  you  ? 

GUIDO.     Mena ! 

MENA.  Untie  me.  (Tries  to  touch  him)  Help 
me,  Guido,  Guido.  (He  loosens  the  rope  completely. 
She  rises  and  moves  stiffly;  staggers.  His  eyes  fol- 
low her  as  she  moves  toward  the  window)  I  can't 
breathe.  Water,  Guido.  (He  turns  to  get  water 
for  her.  As  he  does  so  she  casts  a  hasty  glance  out 
of  the  window.  Taking  the  water,  she  staggers 
again.  He  helps  her.  Almost  convulsively  she  goes 

49 


BETWEEN  FIRES 

into  hit  arms.  He  supports  her.  She  murmurs) 
Guido,  Guido.  (MENA  is  facing  the  door  when 
LUIGI  passes  the  window.  She  sees  him.  He  is  at 
the  door  in  a  moment  and  opens  it.  Stands  amazed 
at  seeing  MEN  A  in  GUIDO'S  arms.  She  cries  out) 
Luigi,  help.  (She  clutches  her  arms  around  GUIDO'S 
neck  to  hamper  him.  GUIDO  turns,  sees  LUIGI,  and 
pushes  MENA  from  him.  The  two  men  approach 
each  other  and  grapple.  LUIGI  is  getting  worsted. 
MENA  tries  to  help  him.  Suddenly  she  sees  the  net. 
There  is  a  break  in  the  struggle.  She  slips  behind 
GUIDO,  throws  the  net  over  his  head  and  shoulders. 
He  becomes  entangled  m  it  and  fatts  to  the  ground. 
MENA  runs  for  her  bundle  and  picks  it  up  with  her 
red  cloak.  GUIDO  reaches  through  the  mesh  of  the 
net  and  catches  Jier  skirt.  She  stamps  on  his  hand) 
Luigi,  Luigi,  quick,  quick,  the  ship  is  waiting  —  for 
America. 

(They  run  off) 

CUBTAIN 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 


CHARACTERS 


AN  OLI>  MAN. 
A  YOUNG  MAN. 
PASSERSBY. 


It  is  in  Independence  Square  on  a  warm  June 
night.  Through  the  trees  the  State  House  can  be 
seen;  the  illuminated  clock  m  the  tower  shows  dis- 
tinctly. Arc-lights,  now  flickering,  now  sputtering, 
reflect  huge  shadows  of  leaves  and  branches  on  the 
pavement.  On  each  of  the  benches  which  line  the 
path  in  the  foreground,  except  one,  the  flgures  of 
sleeping  men  are  seen.  Some  are  stretched  out,  oc- 
cupying a  bench  alone;  others  are  sitting  slouchily 
with  their  heads  sunk  in  their  chests,  two  and  three 
on  a  bench.  On  the  nearest  bench  to  the  right  sits 
an  OLD  MAN.  His  clothes  are  slovenly  and  he  has 
drawn  his  dirty  felt  hat  over  his  eyes.  On  the  other 
end  of  the  bench  sits  a  YOUNG  MAN.  He  wears  a 
soft  black  hat  and  a  soft  shirt,  and  his  suit  shows 
an  indifference  to  clothes. 

The  time  is  past  midnight.  At  intervals  the  drone 
of  street  cars  and  their  creaking  as  they  start  and 
stop  is  heard.  Occasionally  delivery-wagons  rattle 
noisily  over  the  cobble-stones  and  trolley-tracks  on 

55 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

the  streets  bordering  the  square.  The  hoarse  sound 
of  river-boat  whistles  comes  now  from  nearby  and 
then  from  farther  away. 

The  YOUNG  MAN'S  attitude  is  one  of  nervousness, 
which  his  sensitive  features  betray.  The  OLD  MAN 
i*  sitting  sideways  in  a  careless  posture,  propping 
his  head  up  on  one  hand.  A  PASSERBY  on  his  way 
home  notices  the  two  men  despite  his  hurry.  They 
hardly  regard  him.  Presently  the  YOUNG  MAN  stirs 
impatiently.  The  OLD  MAN  looks  up  without  any 
show  of  interest. 

OLD  MAN.  (After  a  pause  gets  out  an  old  pipe 
and  a  bag  of  tobacco.  He  fumbles  m  his  pocket  for 
a  match)  Got  a  match,  stranger? 

YOUNG  MAN.  (Reaches  into  his  coat  pocket  and 
hands  one  to  the  OLD  MAN)  Hold  that  a  minute. 
It's  the  last  one  I  got. 

(He  takes  out  a  cigarette,  which  he  has 
been  carrying  loose  in  his  pocket) 

OLD  MAN.  (Quietly)  Little  more  cheerful  with 
the  old  pipe  goin*. 

(He  lights  the  pipe  and  hands  the  burn- 
ing match  to  the  YOUNG  MAN) 

YOUNG  MAN.     Yes,  for  about  five  minutes. 
56 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

OLD  MAN.  Well,  that's  somethin'.  It's  a  couple 
a  hours  yet  afore  daylight. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Are  you  waiting  for  daylight? 
OLD  MAN.     Not  waitin' —  I'm  not  waitin'  for  any- 
thing, but  I  know  daylight  will  come. 

YOUNG  MAN.  (Shrugs  his  shoulders,  dissatisfied) 
Hm  — 

OLD  MAN.  Of  course,  it'll  come,  and  then  another 
night.  Be  funny  if  daylight  didn't  come  once  and 
everybody'd  wake  up  and  find  it  was  the  same  as 
when  they  went  to  bed.  Folks'd  think  the  end  of 
the  world  had  come  and  be  afraid  they  was  dead. 

(The  idea  amuses  him.  The  YOUNG  MAN 
does  not  answer.  He  seems  to  be  lost  in  his 
own  thoughts.  Four  young  people,  two  boys 
and  two  girls,  chattering  loudly,  approach. 
One  GIRL  says,  "  Let's  take  a  boat-ride  Sun- 
day." They  lower  their  voices  in  passing 
and  can  be  heard  laughing  after  they  have 
disappeared  down  the  path) 

YOUNG  MAN.  (Half  to  himself)  They  are  wait- 
ing for  Sunday  to  come. 

OLD  MAN.  (Changes  his  position  and  after  scru- 
tinizing the  face  of  his  companion  straightens  up) 

57 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

Young  feller,  I've  sat  on  park-benches  for  near 
onto  fifteen  years,  and  I'm  figurin'  you're  doing  it 
for  the  first  time.  Did  you  lose  your  job? 

YOUNG  MAN.     (Abruptly)     No  —  I've  got  a  job. 

OLD  MAN.  (A  quizzical  expression  not  without  a 
touch  of  humor  appears  on  his  face)  Been  crossed 
in  love? 

YOUNG  MAN.  No  —  there  are  other  reasons  why 
people  sit  on  park-benches.  I  don't  know  what  yours 
is  and  you  will  not  understand  mine. 

OLD  MAN.  Mebbe  you  don't  think.  The  real 
reason  is  about  the  same.  I  ain't  lost  no  job  — 
didn't  have  any  to  lose  —  or  anyhow  I  could  get  one 
if  I  wanted  to,  and  crossed  in  love  ain't  the  reason 
neither.  (  YOUNG  MAN  looks  at  him  as  if  about  to 
say  something,  but  remains  silent)  When  you  first 
sat  down  here,  I  saw  you  sort  of  stop  and  I  thinks 
to  myself  you  was  on  your  way  to  the  Delaware 
River  down  there,  but  you  sort  of  ain't  got  the  cour- 
age. I  started  for  a  river  once  myself.  The  world 
and  me  had  an  argument.  I  felt  about  the  same 
as  you  do.  I  got  as  far  as  jumpin'  in  the  water 
and  then  a  bum  of  a  stevedore  pulled  me  out.  That 
set  me  thinkin'.  Nobody'd  known  he  seen  me 
58 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

jumpin'  in,  and  I've  often  wondered  why  he  both- 
ered to  pull  me  out. 

YOUNG  MAN.  And  now  you  want  to  sort  of  pull 
me  out  of  the  river  —  you  want  to  talk  me  out  of 
jumping  in. 

OLD  MAN.  Then,  it  was  right  that  you  was 
thinkin'  about  doin'  it? 

YOUNG  MAN.  (Assuming  carelessness)  It  will 
help  the  conversation  if  I  say  so. 

OLD  MAN.  Talkin'  it  over  won't  do  no  harm. 
You  can  still  jump  in  afterwards.  I  suppose  you 
don't  think  I'm  much  of  a  prospect  to  offer  you 
against  jumpin'  in  the  river.  I  just  told  you  I've 
been  sittin'  on  benches  for  near  fifteen  years.  You 
hadn't  thought  of  that  as  an  argument. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Arguments  haven't  anything  to  do 
with  what  a  man  does,  whether  it  is  kill  himself  or 
buy  a  breakfast. 

OLD  MAN.  You're  right  about  that  —  you  got 
an  old  head  on  young  shoulders. 

YOUNG  MAN.  And  since  I  have  an  old  head  I 
might  as  well  die.  My  body  has  nothing  in  store 
for  it  except  the  grave  and  worms;  physical  pleas- 
urea  don't  interest  me. 

59 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

OLD  MAN.  (Ironically)  Arguments!  (The 
YOUNG  MAX  looks  at  him  quickly,  then  laughs  ap- 
preciatively. A  pause  follows,  during  wliich  he 
teems  to  be  trying  to  phrase  an  answer.  The  OLD 
MAN  sticks  his  fore-finger  into  the  bowl  of  the  pipe) 
You  ain't  got  no  more  matches,  have  you? 

YOUNG  MAN.  These  cheerful  five  minutes  of  the 
pipe  have  passed. 

OLD  MAN.  Rather  cheerfully.  (A  scrub-woman 
on  her  way  to  work  drags  wearily  past.  Her  face  is 
tired  and  wan.  The  OLD  MAN  follows  her  with  his 
eyes)  I  feel  sorry  for  her  —  looks  as  if  she  had  a 
baby  coming,  too. 

YOUNG  MAN.  I  feel  sorrier  for  the  baby.  (He 
gets  up  nervously,  walks  a  few  steps  and  then  sits 
down  again)  Oh,  it  is  all  useless.  I  left  the  old 
country  inspired  by  the  stories,  of  the  new  world. 
I  came  here  to  the  great  democracy,  the  land  of 
equality,  of  opportunity.  Our  history  books  in  the 
chapter  about  America  told  a  lot  about  the  freedom 
and  glory  that  rang  out  on  a  bell.  I  came  here  with 
that  sound  in  my  ears  —  but  that  bell  doesn't  ring 
any  more.  There  is  a  crack  in  the  bell.  They  said 
any  man  could  be  president  here ;  I  felt  that  I  could 
60 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

conquer  the  world.  Hah !  I  started  in  as  a  waiter 
and  saved  my  money  to  study  at  nights  in  the  uni- 
versity. I  found  nothing  there  — (Deliberately) 
They  are  merely  waiters  of  another  kind. 

OLD  MAN.  And  so  you  thought  you  might  as 
well  end  it  all.  Instead  of  becoming  a  waiter  your- 
self —  you  thought  you  might  find  something  in 
death. 

YOUNG  MAN.  (Buries  his  head  m  his  hands) 
And  you  make  me  think  there  is  nothing  to  end  — 
that  life  is  living  death.  (A  LABORER  passes,  look- 
ing curiously  at  the  two  men)  He's  happier  than 
we  are. 

OLD  MAN.  And  when  he  comes  home  to  his  dirty 
house  and  a  naggin'  wife,  he'll  think  of  us  and  say 
we're  happier  than  he  is. 

YOUNG  MAN.  (Sardonically)  That's  poor  con- 
solation, or  are  you  trying  to  convince  me  that  my 
lot  is  not  so  'bad? 

OLD  MAN.  Oh,  I  don't  know  —  I've  lived  a  while 
longer  than  you  have. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Is  that  offered  as  something  to 
live  for? 

OLD  MAN.  (Sharply)  I  ain't  offering  nothin' 

61 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

(After  a  pause)  You  was  just  thinkin'  about  that 
liberty  bell  over  there  what  rang  out  a  fine  song 
for  freedom  and  then  cracked.  I  started  out  a  fine 
young  man,  too,  like  you,  and  I  cracked  —  and  you'd 
better  stop  ringing  now  or  you'll  crack  too. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Which  is  rather  a  picturesque  way 
of  describing  disillusionment. 

OLD  MAN.  Call  it  what  you  like.  (The  clock  in 
the  State  House  tower  strikes  one.  The  OLD  MAN 
turns  slowly  and  looks  at  it)  Half  past  twelve. 
You  can't  tell  now  without  lookin'  if  it's  half  past 
twelve,  or  one  o'clock  or  half  past  one. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Does  it  make  any  difference? 

OLD  MAN.  Funny  how  time  passes.  Have  you 
ever  tried  to  catch  time?  (Chuckles)  It's  a  funny 
feeling.  (Leans  forward  as  if  trying  to  do  it  in 
his  mind)  Pesky  feclin',  just  like  a  mosquito  that 
buzzes  in  your  ear  and  you  slap  at  it  and  miss  it. 
But  I'll  bet  some  of  them  scientists  will  do  that  yet. 

YOUNG  MAN.  You  mean,  think  they'll  do  it.  An- 
other illusion.  Time  goes  on  and  on  to  nowhere  — 
everything  goes  on  to  nowhere. 

OLD  MAN.     'Cept  us.     We  stop  some  time. 

YOUNG  MAX.  Yea  —  even  while  we  are  alive,  some 
6* 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

of   us.     The  people   fooled  themselves   a   long   time 
into  believing  there  was  a  heaven  or  hell  after  this. 

OLD  MAN.     And  there's  lots  of  'em  yet  who  does. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Do  you? 

OLD  MAN.  I  don't  know.  We'll  find  out  when 
we  die. 

YOUNG  MAN.  And  you  stop  me  when  I  seek  to 
find  the  answer  in  death. 

OLD  MAN.  It'll  come  anyhow.  There  ain't  no 
hurry. 

YOUNG  MAN.  But  in  the  meantime  —  this  eternal 
nothingness  of  life. 

OLD  MAN.     Do  somethin'  else. 

YOUNG  MAN.     What? 

OLD  MAN.  Anything  —  I  don't  know.  I'm  sit- 
tin'  around  watching  the  show.  Sometimes  it's  in- 
teresting and  sometimes  it  ain't.  I've  been  thinkin' 
of  goin'  West. 

YOUNG  MAN.     West?     Is  it  any  different  there? 

OLD  MAN.  Mebbe  not,  but  I'm  kind  a  gettin' 
restless  myself.  I've  got  to  be  goin'  somewhere  and 
doin'  somethin'. 

YOUNG  MAN.  (Suddenly)  I'll  go  with  you. 
I'd  like  to  try  your  way  —  maybe. 

63 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

OLD  MAN.  Listen,  young  feller  —  I'm  like  that 
liberty  bell.  I'm  cracked  —  I  don't  ring  any  more. 
I  got  folks  as  remember  me  when  I  was  a  fine  strong 
young  man  like  you,  just  like  as  folks  used  to  re- 
member that  old  bell  and  make  a  relic  out  of  it. 
When  that  bell  was  ringin'  they  had  a  lot  of  fine 
dreams  about  liberty  and  democracy.  They  saw  it 
all  as  if  it  was  already,  but  there  ain't  no  more  lib- 
erty now  than  there  ever  was. 

YOUNG  MAN.  But  I  can  take  care  of  you  — 
you're  not  young  any  more.  (Interested)  It 
would  be  doing  something. 

OLD  MAN.  Take  care  of  me,  as  if  I  was  an  old 
relic.  Like  hell !  You  ain't  cracked  yet.  You  ain't 
got  time  to  bother  with  an  old  man  like  me. 

YOUNG  MAN.  But  the  old  bell  is  well  taken  care 
of. 

OLD  MAN.  By  the  State  and  a  lot  of  old  dames. 
So  I'll  be  taken  care  of  by  the  State  or  a  lot  of  old 
dames  —  in  prison  or  a  poorhouse. 

YOUNG  MAN.  I  wonder  if  that  is  pessimism  or 
optimism  ? 

OLD  MAN.  It's  horse-sense.  How  many  thinks 
64 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

of  what  that  old  bell  stands  for  except  in  Fourth  of 
July  speeches  and  history  books? 

YOUNG  MAN.     But  .  .  . 

OLD  MAN.  But  what?  You  know  I  got  a  theory 
—  the  Bible  says  let  your  answer  be  yea  or  nay. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  Lord  —  you're  going  to  re- 
peat some  tawdry  platitude  you  heard  in  a  mission 
while  you  were  getting  in  out  of  the  rain  — 

OLD  MAN.  (Continuing)  But  that  ain't  my 
doctrine.  There  is  always  a  but  and  it's  a  good 
thing. 

YOUNG  MAN.     You  are  wiser  than  the  Bible? 

OLD  MAN.  No  —  but  just  the  same,  if  there 
hadn't  been  no  but  you'd  be  in  the  river  now. 
(There  is  a  pause.  The  clock  m  the  tower  strikes 
one)  What  time  do  you  go  to  work  in  the  mornin'? 

YOUNG  MAN.     Eight  o'clock. 

OLD  MAN.  It's  one  o'clock  now  —  and  I  didn't 
have  to  look  at  the  clock  to  know  it. 

YOUNG  MAN.  (Slowly)  I  think  I  understand 
what  you  mean. 

OLD  MAN.  I  mean  you  had  better  go  home  and 
get  some  sleep. 

65 


THE  CRACK  IN  THE  BELL 

YOUNG  MAN.  Yes!  (Resolutely)  I  will  jump 
in  the  river  tomorrow  —  but  not  the  Delaware  — 
the  river  of  life,  where  the  torrent  is  strongest,  and 
I  shall  flow  with  it  wherever  it  may  lead.  But  I 
want  to  see  you  again.  (Rises)  Where  will  you  be 
tomorrow  ? 

OLD  MAN.     (Looks  at  him  quizzically)     I  dunno. 
Lookin'  for  the  fountain  of  youth. 
(Turns  and  looks  away) 


CUBTAIN 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 


CHARACTERS 

BUTWELL  SHARP,  A  Professor  of  literature  and  au- 
thor of  books  on  folklore. 

ERNEST,  His  nepliew  and  a  student  in  liis  classes. 
ELSIE. 


The  place  is  New  York;  the  time  is  three  m  the 
morning;  the  scene  is  Professor  Sharp's  bedroom. 
Moonlight  streams  in  through  a  window,  illuminating 
a  section  right  side  of  the  room  and  disclosing  a 
sort  of  sleeping- porch  or  alcove  built  out  from  the 
right  wall.  Through  the  partly  separated  curtains 
of  the  alcove  a  bed  can  be  seen,  the  contour  of  its 
covers  showing  it  to  be  occupied.  Moonlight  through 
another  window  falls  upon  a  big  center-table  over 
which  a  large  enveloping  cover  is  spread.  An  arm- 
chair stands  in  front  of  the  table,  at  an  angle  slightly 
facing  it.  A  straight-backed  chair  stands  in  the 
light  of  tlie  window  beside  the  alcove.  Upon  this  is 
a  glass  of  water.  A  lamp  stands  on  the  center-table. 
A  wide,  curtained  doorway  leads  to  the  hall.  The 
entire  room  is  equipped  with  gymnastic  apparatus, 
such  as  dumb-bells,  Indian-clubs,  weights,  a  medicine- 
ball,  etc.  The  arrangement  of  this  is  indifferent  ex- 
cept that  near  the  alcove  stands  a  "  horse  "  and 
across  the  room  from  this  a  punching  bag  is  sus- 
pended. 

71 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

Presently  ERNEST  and  ELSIE  appear  at  the  door- 
way in  an  attitude  of  caution.  ERNEST  is  garbed  in 
a  fantastic  costume  of  no  particular  description. 
ELSIE  represents  Columbine.  Both  wear  masks. 
The  figure  in  the  bed  stirs. 

ERNEST.     Shissh  —  wait  a  minute. 

(He  enters  the  room  carefully  and  pulls 
the  shade  down.  Starts  to  do  same  next  to 
the  alcove  when  he  kicks  over  some  Indian 
rjdbs  with  a  clatter.  ELSIE  is  frightened  and 
disappears.  ERNEST  crowds  against  the  wall. 
Pause.  ERNEST  then  looks  out  of  the  door- 
way and  beckons  to  the  girl,  conveying  the 
idea  to  her  that  it  will  be  all  right  for  her  to 
sit  down  and  wait.  Then  he  proceeds  to  win- 
dow at  right.  He  looks  out  a  moment, 
breathing  deeply.  Laughs  to  himself  and, 
not  thinking,  he  sits  down  upon  the  glass  of 
water.  The  fall  of  breaking  glass  is  heard. 
Half  loud  he  exclaims,  "  Wow !  "  He  hurries 
across  the  room  and  squats  behind  the  arm- 
chair. There  is  a  commotion  in  the  bed. 
Presently  a  scholarly  and  owl-like,  but  fright- 
ened head,  appears  between  the  curtains. 
73 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

SHARP.     Who  —  who  —  who's  there  ? 
ERNEST.      (Aside}     Good  Lord! 
SHARP.     Who  —  who  — ? 
ERNEST.     Whoo  —  whoo  —  said  the  owl. 
SHARP.     What's  the  matter  —  who  is  there? 
ERNEST.      (In  sepulchral  tones)     No  one  —  you 
are  alone. 

SHARP.  (His  head  disappears  for  a  moment  and 
then  he  looks  out  again,  holding  a  revolver  shakily. 
ERNEST  crawls  under  the  table.  SHARP  cautiously 
emerges  from  the  bed.  He  is  clad  in  noticeably  blue 
pajamas.  He  steps  into  the  water  from  tlie  over- 
turned glass)  Ouch  —  what's  that  on  the  floor? 

(He  half  gets  back  into  bed  and  then  re- 
turns forth,  looking  tinder  tJie  bed.     He  ven- 
tures farther  out  and  quickly  turns  on  watt- 
light  by  alcove.     SHARP  fairly   trembles  as 
he  moves  toward  table  sideways,  facing  the 
door.     He  advances  suspiciously.     ERNEST  is 
seen  to  peer  out  between  folds  of  table-cover) 
ERNEST.      (Reachmg    out    his    hand    he    strokes 
SHARP'S  leg  admiringly)     What  wonderful  blue  pa- 
jamas.     (SHARP  jumps,  screams,  drops  revolver  and 
dives   rapidly   back  into   the   bed.     ERNEST  crawls 

73 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

from  under  the  table  and  pick»  up  revolver)     Did  I 
frighten  you? 

SHARP.  Who,  who  are  you  —  who  are  you,  who, 
who  — 

ERNEST.  (Toys  with  revolver)  To-whit-to- 
whoo. 

SHARP.  (Frightened)  Look  out  with  the  gun. 
(ERNEST  throws  it  on  the  table)  The  jewelry  is  all 
in  my  wife's  bedroom. 

ERNEST. 

I  care  not  for  gems  or  gold  that  glitters. 
My  wealth  is  a  jest  and  bird-song  twitters. 

SHARP.     (Coming  out)     So  it  is  you? 

ERNEST.  No,  it  is  not.  You  think  you  recog- 
nize my  voice  and  person.  They  are  me,  I  admit, 
but  the  spirit  is  new. 

SHARP.  (Angrily)  What  do  you  mean  by  try- 
ing to  scare  me? 

ERNEST.     (Innocently)     Did  I  scare  you? 

SHARP.  I  suppose  you  think  this  a  practical 
joke? 

ERNEST.     You  are  wrong,  Uncle.      (Whimsically) 
This  is  far  from  a  practical  joke.     It  is  an  imprac-. 
tical  joke —  a  fanciful  joke. 
74 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

SHARP.  (Near  him,  suspiciously)  Ernest,  you 
have  been  drinking.  You  are  drunk. 

EENEST.  (Ecstatically)  Drunk  —  perhaps  — 
Be  drunken,  saith  Baudelaire  —  be  drunken  with 
wine,  with  women  or  with  song  —  with  one  or  with 
all,  but  be  drunk.  Yes,  I  am  drunk,  but  not  as  you 
think. 

SHARP.  Don't  talk  so  loud  —  you'll  wake  Aunt 
Rachel  —  and  I  don't  want  her  to  see  her  sister's 
son  in  this  condition.  (Reproachfully)  And  she 
sent  you  to  live  in  my  house  and  attend  the  uni- 
versity where  I  am  professor  that  you  should  not 
fall  into  bad  habits. 

ERNEST.     Don't  cry,  Uncle  — 

SHARP.  Where  have  you  been?  Tell  me.  You 
have  been  in  bad  company. 

ERNEST.  Uncle  —  how  can  you  say  that  —  bad 
company  —  but  you  don't  know. 

SHARP.  It  is  my  duty  to  the  family  to  get  at  the 
bottom  of  this.  Sit  down  there  and  tell  me  the 
truth  from  the  beginning. 

ERNEST.  Gee,  but  you  look  funny  in  blue  pa- 
jamas—  they  almost  match  your  eyes. 

SHARP.  Do  as  I  tell  you.  You  needn't  incrim- 

75 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

inate  your  fellow-students,  but  tell  me  what  you  have 
been  doing.  You  were  all  right  when  you  left  your 
Aunt  Rachel  and  me  after  supper  to  go  to  your  room 
and  study. 

ERNEST.  No,  I  was  not  all  right.  But  I  shall 
tell  you  the  truth  from  the  beginning.  As  you  say, 
I  went  to  my  room  to  study  for  your  examination 
tomorrow  —  the  examination  in  medieval  folklore. 
(SHARP  /.•>•  sitting  behind  the  table,  ERNEST  in  the 
arm-chair)  I  studied  your  book  —  here  it  is 
(Picks  it  up  off  table)  The  tenth  chapter  —  en- 
titled "  Till  Eulenspiegel  "— 

SHARP.  Come,  come  —  don't  waste  time  over  non- 
essentials. 

ERNEST.  But,  Uncle,  this  is  very  essential.  Ah 
-  I  read  this  chapter  —  it  is  masterful.  "  Till  Eu- 
lenspiegel and  His  Merry  Pranks  " —  here  it  is  writ- 
ten. (Becomes  enthusiastic  and  reads)  "  Till  Eu- 
lenspiegel is  the  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  rebellion 
against  conservatism  and  tradition,  the  perverse 
mocker  of  accepted  standards.  Till  Eulenspiegel 
represents  the  greatest  single  factor  towards  the 
emancipation  of  mind  in  the  middle  ages."  Ah  — 
and  what  pranks  he  played. 
76 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

SHARP.  Come,  come;  I  will  not  have  you  jesting 
at  me  and  my  book. 

ERNEST.  (Laughs)  Ah,  but  I  must.  That  is 
the  point.  (Loudly)  I  am  Till  Eulenspiegel  to- 
night. 

SHARP.  (Ill  at  ease)  Keep  quiet  or  you'll  waken 
Aunt  Rachel. 

ERNEST.  She  sleeps  too  soundly,  Uncle  and  Pro- 
fessor —  embodiment  of  conservatism  and  tradition. 
Yes,  I  read  in  your  book  about  Till  Eulenspiegel  — 
I  could  not  study  any  more.  Congratulations ! 
How  attractive  you  make  him.  You  were  inspired 
when  you  wrote  it.  And  it  inspired  me.  I  knew 
there  was  a  masked-ball  to  be  given  by  artists  to- 
night. Good-bye  to  study,  good-bye  to  traditions. 
Thither  I  would  go  and  be  Till  Eulenspiegel  —  see, 
I  improvised  this  costume  and  then  I  went,  inspired 
by  your  book.  Ah,  Uncle,  it  was  living  your  book. 
A  merry  prank. 

I  stepped  on  fat  men's  feet, 
Poked  them  in  their  paunches ; 
These  tricks  I  would  repeat, 
Kick  them  on  their  haunches. 
Where  women  wear  no  hose, 

77 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

But  are  not  less  refined, 
I  made  a  mental  nose, 
At  study  and  the  grind. 
A  fat  colonial  dame, 
Was  partner  in  a  dance ; 
I  revelled  without  shame. 

SHARP.  Ernest,  what  has  come  over  you?  This 
is  positively  disgusting,  but  go  on  — 

ERNEST.  Ah,  yes!  I  will  pass  that  colonial 
dame  by.  Ah  —  then  I  found  Columbine  at  the 
dance.  Here  you  tell  about  her  too  in  your  book  — 
the  eighth  chapter.  Ah,  Columbine,  she  was  lovelier 
than  I  dreamed.  Such  eyes,  such  hair,  such  grace. 
Ah,  Italy,  it  was  your  Venice  on  a  moonlit  night  that 
gave  us  Columbine.  It  was  Venice.  I  know  — 
don't  say  no,  don't  cite  facts.  It  was  Venice.  She 
was  dressed  —  Ah  —  Uncle,  it  was  like  a  dream. 
(Suddenly)  No  —  Columbine  was  real.  I  brought 
her  with  me.  (Goes  to  doorway  quickly,  disappear!, 
and  calls)  Columbine  —  sweet  Columbine. 

SHARP.      {Completely      dumbfounded)      Ernest, 
come  back  here.     Keep  still,  be  careful,  you  will  wake 
Aunt  Rachel. 
78 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

ERNEST.  (Returns  with  Ms  arms  around 
ELSIE) 

I  found  her  half-asleep 
Here  in  the  hallway-chair, 
The  moonlit  night  would  weep, 
If  it  were  half  as  fair. 

SHARP.  (Utterly  confused,  but  indignant)  Who 
is  this  woman? 

ERNEST.  (Presenting  them  to  each  other)  Co- 
lumbine —  Uncle  —  Columbine,  about  whom  you 
wrote  a  whole  chapter. 

SHARP.  Ernest,  take  that  creature  away  from 
here. 

ERNEST.  Wait!  (Seizes  a  piece  of  paper  from 
table  and  rapidly  makes  a  cone)  There,  Uncle! 
(Puts  it  on  SHARP'S  head)  Now  you  are  Pierrot. 
Your  blue  pajamas  make  an  admirable  costume. 
(Puts  ELSIE'S  hand  in  SHARP'S)  I'll  go.  (Assum- 
ing an  attitude  of  dejection)  I'll  be  Harlequin,  sad 
Harlequin,  who  always  is  cheated. 

SHARP.  (Angrily  dropping  ELSIE'S  hand  and 
throwing  cap  on  the  floor)  You  shameless  profli- 
gate, you  - 

79 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

ERNEST.  Fie  on  you !  (Picks  up  cap)  Then  I 
must  again  be  Till  Eulenspiegel  and  finish  my  merry 
prank. 

ELSIE.  (Bored,  to  ERNEST)  Say,  funny  fellow, 
I'm  awfully  sleepy  — 

SHARP.  (Interrupting,  to  ELSIE)  What  do  you 
want  here? 

ELSIE.     I  want  to  go  to  bed. 

SHARP.     Get  out  of  here,  you  hussy  — 

ELSIE.  (Bristling)  Hussy  —  I  want  you  to 
know  — 

ERNEST.  (Conciliatory)  Tush,  sweet  Colum- 
bine !  He  is  a  professor  and  he  spoke  that  word  in 
its  Shakespearean  capacity. 

ELSIE.  (Somewhat  mollified,  to  SHARP)  Any- 
how, I'm  not  walking  before  strange  women  in  my 
pajamas  —  even  if  I  do  want  to  go  to  bed. 

ERNEST.     (Patting  her) 

Poor  little  Columbine 
Weary  from  too  much  wine, 
The  grapes  that  for  you  bled  — 

(As  if  hunting  for  a  rhyme) 

Ah  here,  sweet,  here  is  a  bed. 
80 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

(He  leads  her  over  to  SHARP'S  bed.     Pushes 
her  into  the  alcove  and  draws  the  curtain) 
SHARP.     For  God's  sake,  Ernest!     This  is  going 
too  far. 

ERNEST.  (Pushes  SHARP  back.  Puts  his  finger 
to  his  lips) 

Sleep  sweetly  and  dream 
Kissed  by  moonlight  beam ; 
Drive  your  fancy's  team 
Where  only  moonrays  gleam. 

SHARP.  Nephew  —  take  that  female  out  of  my 
bed.  Good  Heavens !  What  if  Aunt  Rachel  came 
in  here  now. 

ERNEST.  Till  Eulenspiegel's  wits  work  fast.  I 
have  already  thought  of  that.  If  Aunt  Rachel  came 
in  here  now,  she  would  think  Columbine  was  your 
mistress. 

SHARP.      (Outraged)     My  mistress ! 

ERNEST.  Why  not?  You — (Shakes  his  head) 
have  been  married  twenty  years. 

SHARP.  Ernest,  how  dare  you  say  such  things? 
This  is  a  respectable  house.  I  am  a  respectable 
man. 

81 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

ERNEST. 

But  what  did  Eulcnspiegel  care 
For  damned  respectability  — 
You  wrote  it  in  that  book  right  there, 
When  Till  was  not  yet  known  to  me. 

SHARP.     I  shall  throw  you  both  out  of  the  house. 

ERNEST.  (Halts  him)  Tush,  Uncle  —  you  dare 
not  wake  Columbine  when  she  sleeps. 

SHARP.     I  shall  call  the  police  and  .  .  . 

ERNEST.  (Breaking  in)  And  wake  up  Aunt 
Rachel.  Then  Till  Eulenspiegel  will  go  piff,  paff, 
poof,  and  disappear  and  Aunt  Rachel  will  find  Co- 
lumbine in  your  bed. 

SHARP.  (Desperately)  Oh!  (Pauses)  But 
think  of  my  reputation. 

ERNEST.     It  is  too  good  already  —  Uncle. 

SHARP.  Don't  you  call  me  Uncle  any  more. 
Take  that  woman  and  leave  this  house  at  once  —  go. 

ERNEST.  Where  to?  —  Out  into  the  cold  Decem- 
ber morn  ?  And  Aunt  Rachel  —  may  she  snore  on 
—  asked  a  blessing  at  dinner  tonight  on  all  the  poor 
homeless  creatures  who  wander  the  streets  at  night. 
Charity  should  begin  at  home. 
82 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

SHARP.  But,  Ernest,  listen  to  reason  — my 
whole  night's  rest  is  gone. 

ERNEST.  Never  mind  —  mine  has  not  yet  be- 
gun. (Pulls  a  flask  from  his  pocket  and  takes  a 
drink)  Come,  have  a  drink,  too.  It  will  quiet  your 
nerves. 

SHARP.     I  never  touched  a  drop. 
ERNEST.     Then  have  a  cigarette. 
SHARP.       I     never     smoked.       (Protests     loudly) 
Put  that  away,  I  won't  allow  you  to  drink  liquor  in 
my  house. 

ERNEST.  Do  not  shout  so  or  you  yourself  will 
wake  Aunt  Rachel. 

SHARP.     My  patience  is  exhausted. 

(Walks  around  room  and  then  starts  for 
the  bed.  ERNEST  quickly  wheels  the  gym- 
nastic "  horse  "  before  the  bed  and  mounts  it, 
blocking  him) 

ERNEST. 

I  am  a  brave  crusader  now 

Who  breaks  his  lance  on  pedantry ; 

Conventions  have  to  make  a  bow. 

I've  snapped  their  chains  and  set  life  free. 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 
Giddap ! 

I  shall  fight  against  their  cursed  hold 
Upon  the  world  and  mind  of  men ; 
No  ancient  knight  can  be  more  bold 
Than  I  against  commandments  ten. 

Giddap ! 

Come  ride  with  me  to  poetry 
And  be  yourself  just  once  again 
And  hang  your  damned  propriety 
Before  the  moon  begins  to  wane. 

Giddap ! 

Come,  ho,  jump  on  this  hobby-horse 
And  ride  with  me  my  fancy's  course ; 
You  say  I  am  not  fully  wise 
And  think  it  meant  for  exercise. 

SHARP.     Ernest,  be  quiet  —  that  drink  has  made 
you  crazy.     You  are  drunk. 

ERXEST.     Yes,  drunk  with  wine  and  woman  and 
a  bit  of  poetry.      (Halts  in  hit  ride) 
84 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

My  rhymes  are  poor  and  metre  worse 
I  merely  sing  a  made-up  song. 
Now  let  me  drive  a  prosy  hearse 
Of  words  that  slowly  trail  along. 
I'll  follow  common  intercourse, 
Dismounting  now  gymnastic  horse. 

(Dismounts)  Listen,  Uncle.  (Pushes  him  in  a 
chair)  You  must  listen  to  me  —  a  word  and  I  shall 
become  Till  Eulenspiegel  again  and  call  for  Aunt 
Rachel  —  so  that  she  will  hear  me,  though  she  sleeps 
so  soundly,  with  doors  and  windows  shut.  But  for 
the  moment  I  philosophize.  I  will  talk  in  your  own 
terms.  Uncle,  you  are  too  innocent  —  yes,  inno- 
cent, though  you  are  a  married  man.  You  have 
missed  half  of  your  life.  For  twenty  years  you  have 
not  had  a  new  sensation  or  lived  a  new  experience. 
You  are  ignorant,  Uncle,  an  ignorant  scholar.  Here 
I  am  but  twenty-two  years  old  and  how  much  more 
I  know  than  you.  I  have  not  lived  as  long  but  I 
have  lived  twice  as  much  —  yes,  in  your  own  house. 
You  have  merely  lived  days  and  years.  You  have 
gotten  up  at  six-thirty  every  morning  and  pulled 
these  weights  twenty  times,  then  punched  this  bag 

85 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

for  three  minutes.  You  have  gone  to  bed  at  ten 
every  night  and  slept  eight  and  a  half  hours.  You 
have  never  altered  this  routine  for  twenty  years. 
The  day  is  for  you  what  it  is  for  this  alarm-clock. 
(Picks  it  up)  Look  it  in  the  face  and  see  yourself. 
The  night  has  been  nothing  to  you  except  sleep  and 
drinks  of  water.  You  open  your  window  so  that  an 
army  of  imaginary  microbes  may  be  overcome  by  so 
many  cubic  feet  of  oxygen.  You  have  never  opened 
it  to  look  out  into  the  mystery  of  the  moonlit  night. 
You  have  never  been  drunk  with  wine  or  woman  or 
song.  And  Aunt  Rachel  —  has  it  been  fear  of  her 
that  made  you  deny  every  impulse  —  or  has  it  been 
the  great  God  Respectability?  (Walks  excitedly 
over  to  punching-bag)  Good  God,  you  have  never 
hit  this  punching-bag  (Gives  it  a  blow  which  re- 
sounds noisily)  just  for  the  sake  of  hitting  it. 

SHARP.  For  Heaven's  sake,  Ernest,  you  will 
awaken  Aunt  Rachel.  Be  reasonable  now,  my  boy, 
and  go  to  bed.  I  will  agree  not  to  say  a  word  and 
consider  the  incident  closed.  I'll  give  you  another 
chance. 

ERNEST.  Give  me  another  chance?  It  is  I  who 
86 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

am   giving  you  your  chance.     Tell  me,  don't  you 
want  to  live,  to  feel  — 

SHARP.  You  are  not  in  a  condition  to  talk  rea- 
sonably tonight. 

ERNEST.  (Shouts)  And  I  don't  want  to  talk 
reasonably !  I  believe  in  folly.  I  want  to  save  you 
from  yourself.  I  cannot  endure  this  suppression 
longer. 

SHARP.     (A   door  is  heard  slamming  off  stage) 
What  was  that? 
ERNEST.     What  ? 

SHARP.  Oh,  my  God,  Rachel  has  heard  us.  She 
is  coming.  Quick,  turn  out  the  light !  (He  does  so 
himself)  Get  under  the  table !  (He  shoves  ERNEST 
on  floor  and  himself  dashes  into  the  alcove.  There 
is  a  moment's  pause;  then  a  scream  from  the  alcove, 
and  SHARP  comes  bouncing  out)  My  God,  I  can't 
stay  in  there  —  with  that  woman. 

(SHARP  crawls  under  the  table.     ERNEST 
in  the  meantime  has  come  out  from  under  the 
table  and  is  seen  moving  toward  the  doorway 
in  back) 
ERNEST.     (Looking  out  the  door) 

87 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

'Twas  nothing  but  the  wind 
A-playing  with  a  blind. 

ELSIE.  (Coming  out  of  alcove,  drowsily)  What's 
the  matter? 

ERNEST.  Ah,  Columbine  —  he  disturbed  your 
sleep.  That  deserves  punishment.  (Picks  up  book) 
"  Till  Eulenspiegel  and  His  Merry  Pranks."  His  vic- 
tims were  parsons  and  pedants.  Professor,  now  you 
are  his  victim. 

SHAEP.  For  God's  sake,  Ernest,  if  Aunt  Rachel 
came  in  here  now? 

EARNEST.  And  saw  you  in  your  pajamas? 
(Looks  at  ELSIE)  I  wish  she  had  come  —  she  shall 
come.  I  shall  wake  her  out  of  her  hippopotamus 
sleep.  Till  Eulenspiegel  will  not  have  a  sorry  end- 
ing to  his  prank.  (Seizes  him  and  ELSIE)  Come 
with  us,  Uncle. 

SHARP.  Let  me  go !  (He  tries  to  push  ELSIE 
out  of  the  door  but  she  in  her  drowsiness  clings  to 
him  with  her  arms  around  him.  SHAEP  struggles 
to  "free  himself}  Let  go  of  me!  Get  out  of 
here! 

EENEST.     (Standing  aside  and  looking  on) 
88 


THERE'S  A  DIFFERENCE 

Sweet  Columbine 
Your  arms  entwine 
A  pillar,  ah  me! 
Of  Society. 

SHARP.  (Pushing  ELSIE  from  him)  Get  out  of 
here ! 

ELSIE.  (Pouting)  Ugh,  but  you're  a  nasty  old 
man.  What  kind  of  a  place  is  this  anyhow? 

ERNEST.  You  cast  Columbine  from  you,  you  ad- 
here to  tradition  and  conventions?  Answer  me! 

SHARP.     I  am  a  decent  man. 

ERNEST.  Ah,  then,  so  be  it.  There's  a  differ- 
ence —  I  see.  It  depends  on  the  age  when  it  hap- 
pened and  to  whom.  Yes,  there's  a  difference. 
Then  tradition  it  shall  be.  I  shall  likewise  live  up 
to  the  traditions  of  Till  Eulenspiegel.  (Pushes 
ELSIE  in  chair)  Aunt  Rachel!  I  shall  play  my 
merry  prank.  Aunt  Rachel  —  then  piff,  paff,  poof 
—  I  shall  disappear.  (Goes  off  calling  loudly) 
Aunt  Rachel,  Aunt  Rachel. 


CUH.TAIN 


89 


LIKE  A  BOOK 


CHARACTERS 

OTIS  DAVIS,  an  artist. 

NORA,  his  wife. 

FAY  FORREST,  another  artist. 

GRANT  LINK,  a  newspaperman. 

DASH,     1     two  habitants  of  Greenwich  Village,  New 

FELICE,]     York  City. 

THE  DEFENDANT. 


The  scene  is  a  studio-apartment  and  a  section  of 
the  hallway  leading  to  it.  The  room  is  furnished 
with  greater  emphasis  upon  apartment  than  studio. 
A  faint  light  burns  in  the  hallway.  At  the  rise  of 
the  curtain,  DAVIS,  FAY,  LINK  and  FELICE  are  seen 
lounging  about  tlie  room.  DASH  is  sitting  at  a 
piano  with  his  back  turned  to  it.  AU  give  the  im- 
pression of  waiting  for  some  one. 

DAVIS.  (Looking  at  his  watch)  Nora  ought  to 
be  here  by  now. 

FAY.     Oh,  you  know  Nora  is  always  late. 

DAVIS.  As  the  charming  Nora's  only  husband  I 
am  quite  aware  of  that  —  only  this  time  it  is  un- 
usually late. 

FELICE.  Oh!  we  might  as  well  wait  a  while  yet. 
Let  me  have  a  cigarette,  Dash  —  no,  I  don't  like 
yours.  Grant,  what  kind  have  you? 

(LINK  throws  her  a  box  of  cigarette*) 

DAVIS.  I  can  leave  a  note  and  tell  her  to  meet  us 
at  the  Brevoort. 

LINK.  (Looks  at  his  watch)  We  might  as  well 
wait  here  —  we  won't  get  a  table  for  a  half  hour. 

95 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

There  are  always  a  lot  of  people  who  leave  around 
ten.  They  turn  that  place  over  like  a  movie-house 
Sunday  nights  —  three  times. 

DAVIS.  All  right,  then,  we'll  wait  here.  By  the 
way,  Grant,  have  you  seen  Edgar  Moreau's  new 
book? 

LINK.  No,  but  I  want  to  get  it.  I  hear  it  goes  his 
last  one,  one  better. 

DAVIS.  (Going  to  tlie  center  table  and  picking  up 
book)  I  got  a  copy  yesterday. 

FAY.  (Joining  him)  What's  the  title,  I  want  to 
read  it? 

DAVIS.     "  Good  and  Evil." 

FELICE.     Oo !     That  sounds  good. 

DASH.     Ha !     Ha !  —  and  is  probably  very  wicked. 
(Turns  and  bangs  the  piano) 

LINK.  (To  FAY,  who  is  turning  the  leaves  of  the 
book)  I  thought,  Fay,  that  you  couldn't  see  why 
everybody  raved  about  Moreau. 

FAY.  Nor  can  I,  but  I'm  fair  enough  not  to  judge 
without  reading. 

DAVIS.     Also  curious  enough. 

(FAY  sticks  her  tongue  out  at  DAVIS) 

LINK.     Have  you  read  it,  Otis  ? 
96 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

DAVIS.  No, —  I  haven't  got  very  far.  Nora's 
reading  it  first. 

FELICE.  To  pass  on  it  and  see  whether  it's  all 
right  for  friend  husband? 

LINK.  I  am  going  to  get  it  tomorrow  and  see 
whether  it  is  good  enough  for  the  Anti-Vice  Society 
to  suppress.  If  it  is,  I  shall  buy  ten  copies.  You 
know  I  happened  to  have  two  copies  of  "  Homo 
Sapiens  "  given  to  me  and  when  it  was  suppressed  I 
sold  them  for  a  lot  of  money  each. 

DAVIS.     You  don't  really  mean  that. 

DASH.  Say,  that's  a  great  idea.  Let's  organize 
a  "  Down  With  Dirty  Books  Society,"  write  them 
ourselves,  then  suppress  them  and  sell  at  a  500  per 
cent  profit.  I'll  be  the  chief  taster  of  the  firm. 
That'll  be  high  finance. 

FAY.  Have  you  ever  run  into  this  man  Moreau, 
Grant? 

LINK.  No,  he's  not  the  kind  that  shows  himself 
at  things  newspapers  report  or  Vigilantes  organize. 

FELICE.  I'd  like  to  meet  him.  They  say  he 
knows  women  like  a  book. 

DASH.     Like  a  book  is  probably  right. 

FAY.  For  once  your  flippancy  shows  sense. 

97 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

Everybody  says  this  man  Moreau  is  a  master  realist, 
but  he  doesn't  know  women  as  they  are. 

LINK.  Now  don't  say  that,  Fay,  I  think  Moreau 
has  the  stuff. 

FAY.  Oh,  yes,  like  all  these  men  who  they  say 
know  women,  he  has  probably  had  no  experience  with 
them.  Those  men  that  have,  don't  claim  to  know 
them. 

DAVIS.  Well,  I  don't  presume  to  know  women, 
but  Nora  seems  to  think  he  gets  right  down  to  facts. 

DASH.  If  I  were  Nora,  I  wouldn't  admit  that. 
He  isn't  very  complimentary  to  women. 

LINK.  Oh,  I  wouldn't  go  as  far  as  to  say  that. 
Moreau  isn't  a  woman-hater  like  Strindberg.  He 
has  more  balance  and  reality.  Strindberg  would 
make  you  think  that  women  are  only  walking  illus- 
trations for  Freud's  theory  of  dreams ;  that  the  sexes 
are  enemies  and  that  women  positively  make  men 
their  prey. 

DASH.  That's  just  as  nutty  as  the  Suffering  Sob- 
Sisters  who  want  to  make  you  believe  that  men  prey 
on  women. 

FELICE.     I've  never  read  Moreau ;  which  way  does 
he  look  on  the  subject? 
98 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

DAVIS.  Neither  one  nor  the  other.  He  rather 
gives  the  circumstances  and  lets  you  judge  yourself. 

FAY.  Yes,  but  he  always  colors  the  circum- 
stances to  throw  the  blame  on  the  woman  — 

LINK.     You  mean  discolors  the  circumstances? 

FAY.  Distorts  them.  I'll  bet  you  that  in  any 
instance  where  a  fair  jury  decided,  it  could  be  shown 
that  women  are  more  preyed  upon  than  men. 

DASH.  Lord !  I  thought  you  were  going  to  quote 
that  famous  old  melodrama,  "  More  Preyed  upon 
Than  Preying." 

LINK.  I  don't  agree  with  you,  Fay.  Maybe 
newspaper  work  twisted  my  sense  of  values  but  I 
can  always  find  a  little  fault  on  both  sides. 

(DASH  turns  around  and  plays:  "There's 
A  Little  Bit  of  Bad  in  Every  Good  Little 
Girl") 

FELICE.  Oh,  Dash,  can't  you  be  serious?  This 
is  really  an  interesting  discussion. 

DASH.  Oh,  bosh  —  you  will  all  talk  seriously  un- 
til doomsday  and  not  get  anywhere.  If  there  is  any- 
thing I  hate  it  is  a  group  of  serious  thinkers. 

FELICE.     Well,  you  know  what  you  can  do. 

DASH.     I  will  eventually,  but  let  me  tell  you  that 

99 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

every  group  of  serious  thinkers  among  women  sooner 

or  later  generates  a  group  of  serious  drinkers  among 

men. 

DAVIS.      (Interrupting)     I  guess  we  might  as  well 

start.     Nora  has  apparently  been  lost,  strayed  or 

stolen. 

FAY.     Maybe  she  stopped  in  at  Helen's. 
DAVIS,     That's  right.     I'll  call  up  there. 

(As  he  turns  to  the  telephone  the  others 
remain  quiet.  Presently  the  figures  of  a  man 
and  a  woman* appear  in  the  hallway.  The 
woman  is  cautioning  the  man  to  be  quiet. 
Points  across  the  hallway  and  then  whispers 
to  the  man.  He  removes  his  shoes  and  with 
them  m  his  hands  follows  the  woman  on  tip- 
toes. DAVIS,  in  the  room,  sets  down  the 
phone,  saying:  "  Don't  answer."  Suddenly 
the  door  bursts  open  and,  pushed  by  the 
woman,  the  man  stumbles  into  the  rdom,  hold- 
ing his  shoes  aloft.  There  is  a  commotion. 
AH  exclaim,  "  Nora."  NORA  closes  the  door 
and  leans  against  it.  She  points  to  the  man, 
who  is  completely  dazed  and  dumbfounded) 

100 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

NORA.     That  man  picked  me  up. 

DAVIS.  (Approaches  the  man  threateningly) 
What?  .  .  . 

THE  DEFENDANT.  (Trying  to  go,  stutters)  I, 
—  I, —  beg, —  beg  your  pardon. 

NORA.  (Laughs  loudly}  Isn't  he  funny?  (DA- 
VIS has  reached  her  side  and  they  block  the  man's 
departure)  Oh,  no,  you  can't  go  yet  —  I'm  going 
to  teach  you  a  lesson. 

(Bursts  out  laughing  again.  Others  grad- 
ually see  the  comic  picture  made  by  the  man. 
DASH  is  the  first  and  joins  NORA  m  laughing) 

DASH.  (Pointing  to  the  shoes)  What  were  you 
going  to  do  with  these  —  wear  them  on  your  hands  ? 

THE  DEFENDANT.  (Utterly  confused,  drops 
shoes  and  picks  them  up  again.  Tries  to  go)  This 
is  really  .  .  . 

NORA.  (Laughing)  I  told  him  I  had  a  terrible 
aunt  across  the  hallway  who  would  kill  him  if  she 
heard  us  and  he  took  his  shoes  off  so  as  not  to  make 
any  noise. 

LINK.     (Laughing)     That  was  pretty  clever. 

NORA.      (To  DAVIS  at  the  door  as  the  DEFENDANT 

101 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

tries  to  go  again)  Don't  let  him  out  till  I  tell  the 
story  —  (To  DEFENDANT)  If  I  have  forgotten  any 
details,  you  can  fill  them  in. 

FAY.  For  Heaven's  sake,  Nora,  stop  laughing 
and  tell  it. 

DASH.  Come  on,  old  man,  make  yourself  at  home. 
(  Wheels  a  chair  around  and  pushes  him  in  chair  but 
he  rises  again)  We  won't  do  anything  to  you. 

DAVIS.  Yes,  Nora,  what  is  the  point  of  this? 
(Sharply  to  th-e  DEFENDANT)  What  do  you  mean 
by  following  this  woman  to  her  apartment? 

NORA.  (To  DAVIS)  Don't  be  angry,  dear. 
(Laughs)  It's  only  a  joke.  Wait  till  I  tell  it. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  (Recovering  his  poise.  From 
now  on  he  gradually  begins  to  become  master  of  the 
situation)  Since  I  am  to  be  held  a  prisoner,  may  I 
ask  to  be  permitted  to  put  my  shoes  on? 

FELICE.  What  in  the  world  did  you  take  them 
off  for? 

NORA.     That's  part  of  the  joke. 

(DEFENDANT  sits  down  and  puts  on  his 
shoes  hastily) 

FAY.     Aren't  men  undignified  with  their  shoes  off? 

THE  DEFENDANT.  Please  don't  let  this  touch  of 
102 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

toilet  embarrass  you.  (To  NORA)  I  can  readily 
appreciate  your  amusement,  even  though  the  joke 
is  on  me.  (Gets  up)  I  seem  to  have  come  upon  a 
good-natured  party  (Looks  at  DAVIS,  who  scowls), 
with  one  exception.  When  you  have  told  your  story, 
I  am  sure  I  shall  have  the  sympathy  of  the  gentle- 
men in  the  party,  since  they  must  understand  that 
I  would  hardly  have  approached  the  lady  without 
some  suggestion  of  an  invitation. 

DAVIS.  See  here — (Starts  toward  him)  Don't 
you  insult  my  wife  or  I'll  smash  your  face. 

THE  DEFENDANT.     Your  wife ! 

DASH.  (Intercepting  DAVIS)  Hold  your  horses, 
Otis.  Come  on,  old  top,  don't  make  a  noise  like  a 
husband  now. 

DAVIS.  I  won't  have  him  insinuate  that  Nora 
flirts  with  strangers  on  the  street. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  It  would  really  be  better  if  I 
were  allowed  to  go. 

LINK.  (Jumping  up)  Yipee! —  Here's  your 
chance,  Fay.  We  were  just  talking  whether  men 
preyed  on  women  or  women  on  men. —  Here  we  have 
a  case  that  will  settle  it.  We'll  find  out  who  started 
this  —  Nora  or  he? 

103 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

DASH.  Great !  —  We'll  have  a  trial  and  weigh  the 
testimony  in  the  case.  Each  of  them  tells  the  story 
and  we'll  be  the  jury. 

LINK.  Nora  will  be  the  plaintiff  and  he  the  de- 
fendant —  and  the  issue  to  be  decided  is  whether 
woman  is  preyed  upon  or  does  the  preying. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  Perhaps  the  young  woman 
might  object. 

NOEA.  Certainly  not !  —  I  am  not  afraid  that  the 
verdict  will  not  be  in  my  favor. 

DASH.  Come  on,  Davis,  you  be  the  judge  —  you 
look  solemn  as  an  owl. 

LINK.  No,  Davis  might  be  prejudiced.  You  be 
the  spectators,  Davis,  that's  a  good  role  for  a  hus- 
band anyhow. 

DASH.  I'll  be  the  judge.  The  rest  of  you  are 
the  jury. 

(They  arrange  the  table,  chairs,  and  other 
furniture  so  as  to  give  the  room  the  appear- 
ance of  an  improvised  court-room) 

LINK.  (Suddenly  catches  the  DEFENDANT,  who 
tries  to  go)  Come  on,  old  man.  On  behalf  of  the 
outraged  husband  whose  anger  still  chokes  him  so 
that  he  forgets  his  duty  as  host,  I  invite  you  as  our 
104 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

guest  to  aid  us  in  settling  this  moral  issue.     We'll 
guarantee  your  safety. 

DASH.     Yes,  let  the  judge  give  you  a  cigarette. 

NOEA.  (Half-aside  to  DAVIS)  Come  on,  dear; 
enter  the  spirit  of  this  thing.  He  is  really  in  a  much 
worse  position  than  you,  and  ever  so  much  more 
graceful  about  it. 

DAVIS.  (Grwning)  Was  that  meant  as  a  com- 
pliment to  me?  But  I'm  on.  (Joins  the  others  as 
they  are  assembling  around  the  judge's  desk)  Let's 
proceed ! 

DASH.  Order  in  the  court-room.  Will  some  one 
please  move  that  the  minutes  of  the  last  meeting  be 
dispensed  with. 

LINK.  Oh,  come  on,  Dash;  that  isn't  court-room 
procedure. 

FELICE.  Link,  you  be  judge.  Dash  isn't  dignified 
enough. 

DASH.  Oh,  shucks !  Damn  dignity !  (LINK. 
throws  him  out  of  chair)  Well,  I'm  going  to  be 
foreman  of  the  jury. 

FAY.     You'd  do  best  as  court-crier. 

DASH.  Is  that  so?  I'd  like  to  know  what  Link 
knows  about  court-room  procedure? 

105 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

LINK.  I  guess  I  didn't  cover  night-court  all  win- 
ter for  nothing. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  In  that  event,  may  I  hope  you 
will  have  learned  how  not  to  dispense  justice? 

DASH.     Say,  you're  some  highbrow ! 

LINK.  (Assuming  a  judicial  mien)  I  assure  you, 
sir,  I  will  handle  the  scales  of  justice  very  delicately 
—  to  begin  with  I  will  use  Edgar  Moreau's  latest 
book,  "  Good  and  Evil,"  for  the  oath  instead  of  the 
Scriptures.  Will  the  plaintiff  take  the  stand? 
(NoBA  rises)  Do  you  swear  to  tell  the  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth? 

NORA.     I  will. 

DASH.  Not  "  I  will  »— "  I  do  "—  you  got  that 
gloomy  spectator  (Points  to  DAVIS)  by  saying,  "  I 
will." 

LINK.     Order. 

DASH.     Ham  and, —  make  it  two. 

FELICE.  (Claps  hand  over  his  mouth)  Keep 
still.  Don't  be  so  silly. 

LINK.  Now,  madam,  tell  the  story.  You  need 
not  say  anything  that  will  incriminate  you. 

NORA.  I  have  no  fear.  I  got  off  the  bus  at  the 
last  stop  in  the  square.  It  was  such  a  wonderful 
106 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

night,  I  thought  I'd  walk  around  before  coming 
home.  This  person  was  also  on  the  bus  and  got  off 
after  me.  .  . 

THE  DEFENDANT.     It  was  also  my  stop. 

LINK.     No  interruptions. 

NORA.  He  caught  my  eye  as  I  turned  to  go. 
Previously,  on  the  bus,  I  had  felt  him  looking  at  me ; 
you  know  how  one  feels  those  things. 

DASH.     How  did  you  know  it  was  he? 

LINK.  Davis,  I  appoint  you  bouncer.  If  Dash 
interrupts  again  he  shall  be  removed.  Proceed, 
madam. 

NORA.  He  followed  me.  I  didn't  notice  it  first, 
but  then  he  came  alongside  and  as  some  people  passed 
he  knocked  my  handbag  on  the  pavement  and  made 
me  walk  right  into  him.  He  apologized,  picked  up 
my  bag  and  then  kept  right  on  walking  with  me. 
He  didn't  look  like  the  men  who  usually  accost  a 
girl  (DEFENDANT  laughs)  and  wasn't  impudent.  He 
kept  right  on  talking  till  we  got  to  our  door.  I 
don't  remember  what  was  said  but  I  suddenly  got 
an  idea.  I  knew  you  were  all  here  and  so  I  let  him 
come  up.  I  told  him  to  be  real  quiet  because  I  had 
a  terrible  aunt  across  the  hallway  and  told  him  to 

107 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

take  his  shoes  off.  Then  I  pushed  him  in  here. 
(Laughs)  I  never  saw  anyone  so  surprised  in  my 
life. 

DASH.  Man,  you  did  look  funny,  standing  there 
with  your  shoes  in  your  hands. 

LINK.     Order ! 

DASH.  What  did  you  think  had  happened  to 
you? 

LINK.     Order ! 

DASH.     Throw  me  out  —  throw  me  out. 

LINK.  Listen,  if  we  want  a  court-jester,  we*ll 
hire  one.  (To  NORA)  Is  that  all  the  plaintiff  cares 
to  say? 

NORA.     I  think  it  is. 

LINK.  Will  the  defendant  take  the  stand?  What 
have  you  to  say? 

FELICE.     Make  him  swear,  by  Moreau,  too. 

LINK.  Oh,  I  forgot.  Do  you  swear  to  tell  the 
truth,  all  the  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth? 

THE  DEFENDANT.     Yes,  your  honor! 

LINK.     Now,  go  on  with  your  side  of  the  story. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  The  plaintiff's  story  is  sub- 
stantially correct.  I  caught  her  eye  accidentally 
as  we  got  off  the  bus.  I  noted  her  hesitation  while 
108 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

she  was  drinking  in  the  wonderful  night.  Then  I 
noticed  that  she  did  not  take  the  direction  in  which 
she  had  started  but  the  one  in  which  I  was  going. 
The  handbag  incident  was  accidental.  People  pass- 
ing crowded  us  and  the  strings  caught  on  my  coat 
sleeve-button.  The  rest  is  as  she  said  —  painfully 
so. 

FAY.     There  you  have  it.     He  pleads  guilty. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  To  the  circumstances  but  to 
the  blame,  No. 

FAY.     The  circumstances  don't  leave  any  doubt. 

LINK.  We  are  departing  from  our  case.  It  is 
more  the  equity  than  the  law  that  is  involved  — 
whether  he  was  justified  in  addressing  the  plaintiff? 

DASH.     It  takes  two  to  make  a  conversation. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  You  cannot  decide  that  issue 
in  a  generalization  —  each  case  must  be  decided  on 
its  own  merits. 

FAY.  Oh,  bosh  —  you  talk  just  like  this  fellow 
Moreau  in  his  books  —  and  then  you  have  a  man 
saving  men  are  right  and  if  a  woman  wrote  the  book 
she  would  say  the  women  are  right. 

DAVIS.  No  woman  can  write  like  Moreau,  I'll  say 
that  much  for  him. 

109 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

NORA.  See  here,  I've  got  a  right  to  cross-examine 
the  prisoner,  haven't  I? 

LINK.     Correct  —  let  us  return  to  the  case. 

NORA.     Have  you  ever  picked  up  a  woman  before? 

THE  DEFENDANT.  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  have 
yet  to  admit  that  I  "  picked  up  "  a  woman  —  I  have 
been  picked  up  by  a  woman  before,  yes. 

DASH.  Why  don't  you  ask  her  if  she  has  ever 
been  picked  up  before? 

LINK.     Oh,  keep  still,  Dash. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  Perhaps  it  would  not  be  irrele- 
vant if  we  first  defined  what  a  "  pick-up  "  is.  For 
instance,  Moreau  in  this  book  upon  which  we  took 
oath  .  .  . 

FELICE.     Oh!     Have  you  read  it?     Is  it  good? 

THE  DEFENDANT.     Opinions  differ. 

FAY.     Decidedly. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  .  .  .  but  as  I  started  to  say  — 
in  this  book,  the  man  and  woman  meet  by  chance 
in  a  train  —  that  might  be  called  a  "  pick-up."  In 
that  case,  the  couple  eventually  marry. 

NORA.  Oh,  pshaw!  Now  you  gave  it  away.  I 
was  getting  all  excited  about  whether  they  really 
get  married  or  not  in  the  book.  (To  DAVIS)  It  is 
110 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

almost  like  our  own  romance.  Do  you  remember  we 
first  met  by  accident  on  a  train  when  I  was  going  to 
college? 

LINK.  Fay  —  please  copy.  I  thought  you  said 
Moreau  wasn't  as  much  of  a  realist  as  he  was  cracked 
up  to  be. 

FAY.  Oh,  you  can't  make  a  generality  out  of  a 
coincidence. 

DAVIS.  Please  resume  the  trial  or  Nora  will  think 
of  some  other  book  that  has  resemblance  to  her  ex- 
periences. 

FELICE.  (To  DASH)  Ah!  Smarty!  Seems 
that  knowing  women  like  a  book  has  some  basis  in 
reality. 

LINK.  The  spectator  wants  the  trial  resumed  — 
we  are  forgetting  the  issue.  Does  the  plaintiff  wish 
to  continue  with  her  cross-examination? 

NORA.     No  —  he  just  twists  my  questions  around. 

LINK.  Does  the  defendant  wish  to  question  the 
plaintiff? 

THE  DEFENDANT.  If  she  will  permit?  May  I 
ask  whether  she  has  ever  read  any  Scandinavian  lit- 
erature? 

NOEA.     Some. 

Ill 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

THE  DEFENDANT.     For  instance  .  .  . 

NOEA.     Oh,  Strindberg,  Ibsen,  Bjornsen.  .  . 

THE  DEFENDANT.     Any  others? 

NOEA.     Ellen  Key. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  That's  not  literature.  Any 
others?  .  .  . 

NOEA.     I  can't  think  of  any  names. 

THE  DEFENDANT.     Knut  Hamsun,  by  any  chance? 

NOKA.     Not  to  my  recollection. 

FAY.  Oh,  Nora,  that's  the  chap  the  funny  coun- 
tess talked  so  much  about,  isn't  it? 

NOEA.     Oh,  yes,  he  isn't  translated  yet,  though. 

DASH.  Oh,  hell  —  what's  all  this  got  to  do  with 
the  case? 

THE  DEFENDANT.     A  great  deal. 

DASH.  Huh,  you  act  like  a  corporation  lawyer 
—  ask  about  the  moon  to  find  out  if  you  sold  cold 
storage  eggs.  I  object. 

LINK.     Objection  overruled,  go  on. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  Did  the  countess,  as  you  call 
her,  tell  you  the  stories  of  any  of  Hamsun's  novels? 

FAY.     Oh,  yes,  she  told  that  one  story  about  — 
why,  Nora  Davis   (Bursts  out  laughing)  —  shame 
on  you.     Don't  you  remember? 
118 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

NORA.  Remember  wliat?  —  Oh! — (Bites  her 
lips)  Don't  you  say  another  word,  Fay  Forrest. 
I  had  forgotten  — 

THE  DEFENDANT.  Yes,  so  had  I,  or  you  wouldn't 
have  caught  me  with  my  shoes  off. 

DASH.  What's  all  this  about?  What's  the 
idea? 

THE  DEFENDANT.  This,  that  in  a  book  by  Knut 
Hamsun  called,  "  Editor  Lynge,"  one  of  the  char- 
acters accosts  a  young  lady  on  the  street  —  asks 
whether  he  may  accompany  her  home.  She  assents. 
On  the  stairway  the  young  lady  tells  about  a  terrible 
aunt  and  makes  him  take  his  shoes  off  and  then 
hurls  the  gentleman  unexpectedly  into  a  roomful 
of  people,  announcing  dramatically,  "  This  man 
picked  me  up." 

NORA.  (As  everybody  bursts  mto  laughter)  I 
had  forgotten  all  about  it. 

LINK.     The  court  charges  the  jury  to  declare  the 
defendant  not  guilty. 
,  THE  MEN.     Not  guilty. 

LINK.  The  women  may  be  excused  from  voting 
on  the  question. 

DASH.     Oh,  fireman,  save  my  suffrage-badge. 


LIKE  A  BOOK 

LINK.  You  are  declared  innocent.  And  say,  old 
man,  will  you  join  us  at  the  Brevoort? 

NOKA.     Oh,  it's  too  late.     I  have  to  get  up  early. 

FAY.     I  won't  go  either. 

FELICE.     I'll  stay  here  with  Nora. 

DASH.     Very  well  —  let  us  men  go  anyway. 

FAY.  Us  men!  There  you  have  it.  Just  what 
I  said  about  this  Moreau  man.  {Men  are  going) 
He  thinks  he's  smart  and  puts  the  blame  on  the 
women,  just  like  you  fellows  do. 

LINK.  But,  Moreau  seems  to  have  some  knowl- 
edge of  women  after  all.  You  know  what  Nora  just 
said  about  her  meeting  with  Davis  —  not  to  mention 
the  incident  where  instead  of  books  imitating  life, 
Nora  ...  if  it  isn't  realism,  it's  uncanny  insight. 

FAY.  Uncanny  insight,  bosh!  Anyhow  I  don't 
care.  That's  all  beside  the  point.  After  all,  you 
are  only  men  and  Moreau  is  only  a  man. 

THE  DEFENDANT.  Thank  you,  Madam,  I  fear 
Moreau  is  very  much  a  man  —  I  am  Moreau. 

(Consternation  among  the  women,  at  the 
men  file  out,  led  by  MOREAU) 

CUBTAIN 


LIST  IN  BELLES-LETTRES 


LIST  IN  BELLES-LETTRES 

Publishtdby  NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 
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Leonidas  Andreiyeff 

A  DILEMMA.  Translated  from  the  Russian  by  John  Cournos. 
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Hermann  Bahr 

THE  MASTER.  A  drama  in  three  acts.  Adapted  for  the 
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Lieut.  James  R.  Crowe 

PAT  CROWE,  AVIATOR.  These  letters  from  France  form 
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THE  LIVING  CORPSE.  Translated  by  Anna  Monossovitch 
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